


Some Friendlier Sky

by AMarguerite, Hammie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Romanticism, lots of musings on popular Romantic literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 124,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammie/pseuds/Hammie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac falls through the roof of no. 7 Rue de l'Homme Armé, taking down not only the ceiling, but the carefully built walls Valjean has constructed around himself and Cosette. Wacky hijinks ensue. Thanks to Hammie for beta-ing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Courfeyrac falls through a roof

Courfeyrac unwisely decided to escape a friend's garret room by heaving himself up through the skylight and trying to run over the rooftops of the Marais quarter. In the over-dramatic feuilleton stories Courfeyrac bought weekly, heroes and villains alike tended to run over the rooftops of Paris, Venice and London without much difficulty, and with angry policemen or vengeful husbands shooting at them. Perhaps his problem was that no one was shooting at him, Courfeyrac thought, the soles of his boots slipping against the roof tiles. Or it could be all the insulting pamphlets he had stuffed into his waistcoat (smearing ink everywhere in the process- Courfeyrac hoped everyone would appreciate his sartorial sacrifices). Or, what was more likely, the pillowcase half-full of cartridges in his right hand.

It kept swinging to and fro, throwing him off-balance. It was extraordinarily annoying, particularly as the small explosion caused by improperly putting together cartridges had made him dizzy.

"You had better appreciate what I am doing for you," Courfeyrac told the cartridges, as he scrambled to keep himself upright. "I am making your existence meaningful by saving you for a barricade, instead of being ignominiously scattered here and there across several student garrets in the Marais. We are entirely fortunate that the journey from the Rue des Blancs-Manteaux to the Rue de la Verrerie requires only a slight run over the Rue de l'Homme Armé." He glanced over his shoulder at the rue des Blancs-Manteaux and the billow of smoke leaking out of the attic.

This was a poor choice; he missed his footing, slipped and fell through a weak spot in the roof. His first thought was, "Oh hell, I hope I know whoever's in the garret here," but that proved to be a moot point. The garret was abandoned and, as a result, the floorboards were weak from water damage.

Instead, Courfeyrac landed in a pretty bedroom, with white curtains billowing at the open window, and a welcome pile of white bed linens and pillows that abruptly halted his fall. His own pillowcase of cartridges landed next to him on the duvet.

Stunned, but miraculously unbroken and still breathing, Courfeyrac told the cartridges, "Well. that could have been a lot worse."

"I-I am sure I have no idea how," stammered someone, most likely the owner of the room.

Courfeyrac pushed himself on his forearms. Landing on his back had knocked the wind out of him and made him feel the sort of dizzy confusion that he previously associated with drinking. He now saw that there was a tall and beautiful lady standing by the window and nervously clutching her embroidery hoop. She had startlingly blue eyes and Courfeyrac- accustomed as he was, to the penetrating blueness of Enjolras's stare- was momentarily lost.

"You fell through the ceiling," the lady prodded, turning the hoop in her delicate hands. "Are you- are you quite all right?"

"Nothing injured but my pride," Courfeyrac said cheerfully, pushing himself off the bed and snatching his hat from off the ground. "This at least saves me the trouble of doffing my hat to you, mademoiselle." If his flourishing bow was still a little wobbly, the lady did not seem to mind. "Gauvain Courfeyrac, at your service. I sincerely apologize for the intrusion- trust me, I had not been planning on, euh, dropping in like this."

The lady was considerably flustered, so Courfeyrac forgave her for blurting out, "That was a terrible pun." She dropped her embroidery hoop, apparently astonished at her own audacity, and pressed her hands to her lips. Upon further observation, she was unusually pretty; she had wonderful brown hair, shaded with threads of gold, a brow that seemed made of marble, cheeks that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale flush, an agitated whiteness, an exquisite mouth made for shy smiles, and a thoroughly Parisian nose.

"Puns are not meant to be laughed at," Courfeyrac said, with false, wounded dignity. "Puns are sometimes quite serious; witness the Castratus ad castra, which made a general of the army of Narses; witness: Barbari et Barberini; etc., etc."

"I have no idea what you are saying," the lady replied, considerably bewildered. "Have you hit your head?"

"No, I am usually like this," Courfeyrac said, with a heavy sigh. "Er- allow me to guess that you were educated in a convent?"

"Yes, the convent of Petit-Picpus."

"Ah ha! Several of my sisters were educated there, if I am remembering correctly- I recall an entrance which stood ajar to display a courtyard surrounded by walls, hung with vines, then, to the right, a cramped little labyrinth in chocolate and canary yellow up to a bare room with a barred hole in one wall, through which one can almost hear one's sister. My eldest sister hated it there, my mother brought my youngest sister to see Laudine but the nuns wouldn't let Laudine embrace little Blanchefleur, or even let Blanchefleur stick her hand through the grate. Blanchefleur had a happier time of it."

"I think- I think perhaps I know a Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac," said the lady, with a tentative smile. "She was several years older than me- did she have your coloring?"

Courfeyrac tried to rub his head where he had hit it against the roof without mussing his curls. He had an awful headache. "That she did, though she likes to embrace the participle I try my hardest to fling away- ah, but my original point: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram."

"You are Peter, the rock upon which I will build my church," the lady replied, as automatically as Laudine and Blanchefleur cried out, 'Forever!' when someone knocked on the door.

"Excellent! Now we may proceed-"

There came a gentle knock on the door.

"Forever," said the lady, before catching herself and blushing. "Come in Papa. A, um, Monsieur de Courfeyrac fell through the roof."

"What?"

The door swung open to reveal a man of about sixty; he seemed sad and serious; his whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military men who have retired from the service, or tidy old widowers still in mourning for dead futures. His hair was startlingly white and his expression was one of barely disguised astonishment.

'Oh my Supreme Being, that's Monsieur Leblanc,' thought Courfeyrac, a little stunned. 'I certainly would not have avoided them if I had known Mademoiselle Lanoir would turn out so charmingly.' This, he realized, was not very fair to Mademoiselle Lanoir- she could perhaps be a terrible conversationalist, or perhaps she was a brilliant conversation when not confused by strange men falling into her bedroom, and he had written off hours of witty quips because she had been plain several months ago. Courfeyrac attempted to bow and tipped over, sending his illegal pamphlets spilling out over the floor.

Mademoiselle Lanoir gasped. "Oh good heavens- Monsieur de Courfeyrac-"

"Go ahead and attack a man with his participle while he's down," Courfeyrac told the carpet.

"Do you live in the garret above?" asked Monsieur Leblanc.

"No, there is a hole in your roof and significant water damage in your daughter's ceiling," said Courfeyrac. "At the moment the floor and I appear to be inseparable friends, otherwise I would get up and show you where, exactly, there is water damage in your ceiling."

"It is apparent," replied Monsieur Leblanc said, almost gently. "Who are you?"

"He's Blanchefleur's brother, I think," said Mademoiselle Lanoir. "You recall Blanchefleur, papa? She was two years older than me and had all those lovely chestnut curls, and the nuns were always so angry that she could not keep them all under her cap. I am not entirely sure how he has ended up in my bedroom."

"Gravity," said Courfeyrac.

Monsieur Leblanc's solid boots came into Courfeyrac's eye-line, followed by Monsieur Leblanc's hand. He picked up one of Courfeyrac's pamphlets, which, fortunately, was a mild diatribe on the disproportionate punishments levied on the lower classes for minor offenses. It didn't even call for workers to man the barricades. Courfeyrac had been quite lucky. Monsieur Leblanc read the first few paragraphs with careful, quite attention.

"Ah, I see," said Monsieur Leblanc. "Are you for another French Revolution, Monsieur de Courfeyrac?"

"Yes," said Courfeyrac, "though I am for many things at the moment, the chief of which is not getting caught by the police with any of the illegal things I have unfortunately scattered about your daughter's bedroom. You can certainly turn me in if you like, but I think you owe me a small favor for showing you the structural deficiencies of your apartment building."

"M-m-monsieur?" stammered someone else, arriving at the door. "I wa-was in my room and th-there was a loud cr-crash in the g-garrett n-next to me. Wh-wha...?"

"A student fell through the ceiling," said Monsieur Leblanc. "Water damage- please alert the concierge, Toussaint. Cosette, my child, would you get Monsieur de Courfeyrac your Hungary water?"

"A glass of brandy would also serve," Courfeyrac said, managing to push himself up. "I am so terribly sorry to have imposed on you. But you know..." He made a vague gesture that was supposed to represent the police. "One can call many laws unjust, but never those of physics."

This almost won a smile from Monsieur Leblanc, but only almost. "That is also apparent."

Mademoiselle Lanoir- or Cosette, Courfeyrac supposed- fluttered down beside him in a heap of gauzy white muslin, holding out a handkerchief soaked in a sweet-smelling distilled water, rosemary the predominant melody against the subtle accompaniment of other herbs and flowers. He wondered if now he would always associate the scent of Hungary water with falling through a roof into this Cosette's bedroom, the same way he associated the smell of crushed lavender with playing with his brother and three sisters in Provence.

"Can I get you a glass of wine?" asked Cosette, quite sweetly worried about him. "You seem to have hit your head very hard." Courfeyrac took a moment to be very glad she was worried about his health instead of screaming hysterically about the man who had just fallen through her ceiling. That was true grace under pressure. Laudine probably could not have done better, even though she was known for her languid sang-froid.

"Have you visited Blanchefleur since leaving the convent?" asked Courfeyrac, pressing the handkerchief to the back of his head. "I am sure she would be delighted to see you. As it is, she spends too much time with Laudine and now all their conversations devolve into the long-standing argument of 'who has the stupider-looking top-knot.'"

Cosette looked at her father before turning her gaze onto her folded hands, resting lightly on her diaphanous skirts. "No, we do not visit much- we are so busy, you see, with papa's philanthropy. We go walking in the Luxembourg sometimes, and I always hope to see someone from the convent there, but we never do."

"Only nursemaids and their charges and students," said Courfeyrac, with a smile. "That explains it- Laudine and Blanchefleur disdain walking and prefer to ride in the Bois de Boulogne."

"They dislike walking?"

"Too plebeian, or something of the sort- Laudine has put on all sorts of airs and graces along with her husband's family jewels."

"You are very trusting of us, to tell us so much," said Monsieur Leblanc.

"I am hoping to inspire enough trust in you to keep me out of prison," said Courfeyrac, cheerfully. "I also have hit my head on your roof and I do not think I am entirely in control of what I am saying. You might want to ask someone to buy better shingles. I was almost arrested once, for stealing a policeman's helmet while the policeman was still inside it, but that was to keep him from arresting a printer friend of mine back in 1830. And then, you know, I just rushed off to a barricade so if they did arrest me, it would be for something worthwhile."

"Were you part of that?" asked Cosette, alarmed, but intrigued. "The fighting and the barricades and all that? Papa and I could hear cannon fire echoing throughout the streets for days, I was never so frightened in my life, since we never went outside to see where it was."

Courfeyrac stole one of Combeferre's bits of pithy wisdom without compunction. "It's always the unknown that's the most frightening. But yes, I was! I was almost a decoré de juillet, but the National Guardsman who had me in a headlock realized my sister was the Baroness de Beaulieu and let me go. I wish I have been alive for the real revolution, the one the monarchists were incapable of stealing."

"I lived through that revolution," Monsieur Leblanc reminisced his expression suddenly, painfully sad. "Bread was cheap under Robespierre, we liked him for it. It was the Directoire that brought the real famine again." He seemed to realize what he was saying only after he had said it and stood, abruptly, suddenly withdrawing inward, until all that could be seen was his usual sad politeness. "Come, Cosette- go see if we have any wine to offer our..."

"Guest," supplied Cosette, with a spark of real happiness. "We have never had a guest before, I wish I had coffee to serve, or macaroons. I think we have some bread from dinner."

"A glass of wine would be the answer to an unspoken prayer," said Courfeyrac, feeling suddenly desperately sad for her. What must it be like to not have friends, to never even have a guest- poor Cosette! There was something unbearable in the idea that she had no one to laugh with, or no one to offer coffee during an afternoon call.

Cosette brightened and immediately made her way through the dining room, which was a little antechamber next to her bedroom, into the kitchen.

Monsieur Leblanc waited until Cosette had gone before saying, in a low tone, "Do not bring trouble to my house, Monsieur. I will not turn you into the police, but do not bring them here. My daughter- I would not have my daughter unhappy."

"If you will excuse my frankness- I hope you will, for I doubt there is a cure- I think she may be. I promise very faithfully not to bring down the National Guard on your house, but would you at least allow me to bring my sister? It is the very least I can do, after all the trouble I am putting you through- Blanchefleur is very dully respectable I assure you, the only thing questionable about her is her taste in literature. I cannot understand how she prefers Byron to Keats."

"Cosette is perfectly happy-I have given her everything a girl her age could possibly want."

"Except the companionship of girls her own age," Courfeyrac said shrewdly. "This is no critique of you, Monsieur, I just have three sisters and know how unhappy they all are in isolation."

"You cannot fall into our lives like this, destroying all I have built to protect my daughter."

"I'll send Blanchefleur over, by herself, in a hackney then," said Courfeyrac. "You have done me a good turn and I am determined to do one for you. I have never yet lost an argument."

True to form, Courfeyrac did not lose, and, by merely asking Cosette if she would like him to bring his sister to see her, battered Monsieur Leblanc into submission. No man could have withstood Cosette's unbridled joy at the idea of seeing her old schoolfellow.

"Tomorrow at three," Cosette insisted, once Courfeyrac had recovered enough to walk back to the Rue de la Verrerie. "You must come, please, I will go out and get cherries myself- Blanchefleur loved cherries, I remember, she used to help me climb the tree in the garden- do you remember Papa? Papa was the gardener, Monsieur de Courfeyrac."

"A mere 'Courfeyrac' is fine," Courfeyrac replied, wincing at this abuse of his participle. "I swear it upon whatever you care to name that I shall bring my sister to no. 7 Rue de l'Homme Armé tomorrow at three."


	2. In which we meet the de Courfeyracs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Courfeyrac siblings call their parents 'maire' and 'paire' instead of 'mama' and 'papa' since those are the words for, respectively, 'mother' and 'father' in Occitain.

Courfeyrac called on his family the next day. His eldest sister Laudine had recently forsaken the Courfeyrac name to become a baroness and now resided in smug luxury in the St. Germaine quarter. Hers was a practical marriage, to a husband two decades her senior who had once served as Tallyrand's secretary. The baron of Beaulieu had learned his lesson well; despite all the fluctuations of the past few decades, the baron had retained his title, fortunate and influence. He was a liberal at heart and had very fond memories of the Revolution, but he enjoyed the benefits of being a baron too much to give it up. The baron had thus ensured his happiness by selecting a bride who had a similar, Machiavellian cast of mind from a family that had always landed on its feet, no matter the tumult, since a dove first swooped down with holy oil for Charlemagne.

Blanchefleur lived with the baron and baroness, as Courfeyrac's parents lived in Aix-en-Provence and Yvain, who was prickly at the best of times, had wisely decided to live alone, in the Rue d'Artois. Yvain had his own circle of acquaintances, his clubs and his various duties to relatives to occupy most of his time and thus punctually visited his sisters every Wednesday at one in the afternoon. Courfeyrac's visits were far less frequent. Laudine occasionally pulled Courfeyrac away from the Latin Quarter whenever gentlemen were scarce at her table or in her ballroom, and Yvain liked to spend those evenings saying something snippy about Courfeyrac's bad character. Whenever he did, Courfeyrac made a point of dropping in on Yvain's visits. Nothing was likelier to annoy Yvain than being proved wrong, and nothing made Courfeyrac smile faster than annoying his elder brother.

"Hello Yvain, bothered any ladies by fountains recently?" asked Courfeyrac, giving his hat, cane and gloves to the butler. "I am sure there are a bevy of beautiful grisettes lingering by the Fountain St. Michel, just waiting for you to babble at them in incoherent Occitan about pouring water on stones."

"The  _one time_ I let you drag me around the Latin Quarter," snarled Yvain.

"And then it's literary allusions for the rest of your life," said Courfeyrac, familiar with Yvain's favorite complaint. "Where's your lion?"

"My  _cat_ is back at my apartment, you over-educated whelp."

"My, my, you are in a bad mood already, and I only flung two quips at you- I have about half-a-dozen lined up to throw at you that have been suddenly rendered unnecessary."

"Marie is no longer at the convent," said Laudine, getting up with languid grace. She extended one expensively beringed hand to Courfeyrac, who dutifully bowed over it. "A pleasure to see you, Gauvain, even if you must rile Yvain again."

"What's wrong with riling up Yvain?" asked Courfeyrac, all wounded dignity.

Laudine lazily fluttered a hand around the stiff curls at her temples. "He has a vein that  _throbs_ so, it is singularly unpleasant- Blanchefleur, put down that book, Gauvain has decided to grace us with his presence."

"I do not have a vein that  _throbs so,_ " snarled Yvain, though he hastily rearranged his hair to hide it. "But put the book down, Blanchefleur, you will strain your eyes will all your reading.  _Maire_ should have named you 'Lunete' like she intended."

Blanchefleur reluctantly put aside  _Yvain, Knight of the Lion_ to address the much less pleasant and significantly less gallant Yvain before her. "I am glad that  _Maire_ did not name me 'Glasses.' 'Blanchefleur' is difficult enough. Gauvain, did you bring me the latest feuillton in that one about the robber who becomes the chief of police, even though his aunt in Toulon- I don't think he really has an aunt there, do you? - is about to go to trial-"

"I forbid you to tell Blanchefleur what is meant by an 'aunt in the galleys,'" growled Yvain, as soon as Courfeyrac pulled the sheet of newsprint from his waistcoat.

"I see you are your own lion today, growling and snarling all over the place," Courfeyrac said. He helped himself to the macarons Laudine always had out when he visited. "What snake bites at your paws?"

"Oh, just Marie," said Laudine, sinking back onto her divan. "I did mention she was thrown out of the convent?"

"What the hell? How do you get thrown out of a convent?"

"Nuns are not very forgiving, as it turns out," said Yvain, wrathfully stirring his tea. This was a difficult action to perform wrathfully, as he ended up splashing tea all over his cuffs.

"She is a moody snot," said Laudine serenely, playing with the new string of pearls she had recently received from her husband. "But I think she is better off for leaving the convent. Hateful place, I never learned anything worthwhile there, Aunt Mathilde had to explain the way everything in society works."

"Speak of the devil," said Blanchefleur, as the doors to the drawing room slammed against the wall.

Marie stomped in, quivering with more rage than it should have been possible to contain inside a black merino, schoolgirl's uniform. "Here you all are again, united against me. It's not fair! It's only because I don't have a name from that wretched book  _Maire_ loves." She snatched up  _Yvain, the Knight of the Lion_ from where it lay by Blanchefleur's elbow. "From now on- from now on I will respond only to Brocéliande!"

Yvain looked heavenward. "Marie, darling little sister, that is the name of the forest."

Marie glared at him fiercely. "Well- well I am like a forest!"

"How so?" asked Courfeyrac, genuinely curious as to where she was going with this.

"I... rise above the common race of humanity, like- like trees."

" _Decent_ save," Blanchefleur conceded. "You are lucky  _maire_ and  _paire_  are still down in Aix-en-Provence and have no idea you got thrown out of school."

"I am not a perfect milksop like you," snarled Marie.

"Marie is a perfectly nice name," Laudine said soothingly. "It was the name of Chrétien de Troyes's patroness, the daughter of Eleanor of Aquitine."

"My name is Brocéliande," Marie growled.

"One of my friends changed his name from 'Jean' to 'Jehan,'" Courfeyrac offered, "But you must realize that going from 'Marie to 'Brocéliande' is slightly more difficult. Oh come now, Mar... euh, Brocéliande, if you keep glowering at me like that, my cravat will wilt in sadness. Such a perfect specimen as this deserves a long and happy life! A thing of beauty is a joy forever, etc, so it is terribly cruel to destroy my cravat. Come have a macaron."

"I hate macarons," sulked Brocéliande.

"No you don't, you like them more than Gauvain," said Blachefleur. Though Courfeyrac was technically the middle child, Blanchefleur, sandwiched between her two sisters, felt the awkwardness of her position more, and was generally less forgiving of any unpleasantness from her siblings.

"Do not!"

"Oh do put some macaroons in her mouth so she will stop shouting in this inelegant manner," pleaded Laudine. Courfeyrac obliged; the next time Brocéliande opened her mouth to whine, he stuffed several macarons into her mouth before she could use it to further annoy her siblings. "Yvain, your vein is throbbing again, go ahead and tell Gauvain how Marie got thrown out of school before you burst and I have to set the maids to scrubbing blood out of my new Turkish carpets."

"Marie bit a nun."

Courfeyrac blinked. "I always considered the transubstantiation of the elements at communion to smack of cannibalism, but I did not think the good sisters of Petit-Picpus would instruct their charges to take it so literally."

"I cannot imagine it tasted very good, either," Laudine said, doubtfully. "The nuns were all tough and leathery looking, from what one could see under the veils and wimples."

Blanchefleur's eyebrows shot up. "I wasn't paying attention this morning when Marie came home. Did she  _really_ bite a nun?"

Yvain smiled grimly. "Oh that was just the beginning! Marie- yes, that is your name, you insolent brat- bit a nun and from there proceeded to act as if she were  _possessed by Satan,_ shouting '666' repeatedly and declaring her love for the Antichrist. Why? Because one of the nuns scolded her for talking during mealtime.  _Gauvain stop laughing, this isn't funny!_ "

"To you, perhaps," Courfeyrac choked out.

"It is a little funny," said Blanchefleur, trying and failing not to smile.

"Marie got thrown out of her very expensive, very renowned boarding school, this is a serious blot on the family honor!"

"Better or worse than Gauvain trying to steal a policeman's helmet while the policeman was still using it?" asked Blanchefleur.

" _Considerably worse._ Marie, you vicious guttersnipe, I see you about to complain. Your fits of temper hold no weight with me! You ought to be praising Jesus- not the Antichrist, for Chrisstake!- that Laudine was willing to take you in, and I still have not written to mother and father about the  _exorcism_ the parish priest was called in to perform on you.  _Gauvain stop laughing!_ "

Laudine yawned, showing her respect for the current proceedings. "Marie, stop spitting macaroon crumbs into my carpets, I am very proud of them. Do let's change the subject, there isn't anything we can do about it now, and Yvain won't listen to anyone about when he writes to dear old _maire_  and  _paire_. What has occupied your days, Gauvain?"

"I met an old schoolfellow of Blachefleur's. Sister dear, do you remember a girl named Cosette? Brown hair threaded with gold, remarkable blue eyes, father who was the gardener?"

"The lame fellow with the bell on his leg?" asked Laudine, frowning.

"No, his brother," replied Blanchefleur. "The lame gardener was obviously not very good at gardening, so he brought in his brother for heavy lifting. Bit of a lonely girl?"

"Yes, that's the one, but so very sweet-natured I felt immensely sorry for her and promised you would visit her." Courfeyrac meekly held out the last of the macarons to Blanchefleur. "Do you forgive me for committing you in advance?"

"Well of course, Cosette was a very sweet thing, she used to help me steal cherries from the orchard. Since her father was the gardener, she always got away with it." Blanchefleur still took Courfeyrac's macaron, which Courfeyrac thought highly unfair. "When did you say I would call on her?"

"Three-o-clock. She lives with her father the gardener in a very retired way in the Marais Quarter, on the Rue de L'Homme Armé."

"She would have to, if her father was a gardener at a convent." The baroness stretched luxuriantly. "I shall accompany you, dear ones, Yvain has been after me to leave him alone to lecture Marie, and I must say, Marie, you do deserve a trimming down from Yvain for biting someone. We are not  _Italians,_ if you are angry at someone, just say something biting instead of actually sinking your teeth into someone's flesh.  _Do_ try to remember we are French?"

"I am not likely to forget now," said Brocéliande, resentfully. "If you let Yvain lecture me, I shall have to listen to his speeches on what it means to be a de Courfeyrac until I  _die._ I can never forget that I am French,  _then._ "

"Well, if that is the only way for you to learn that lesson..." Laudine crooked a finger at Blanchefleur, who sighed heavily, but still followed her sister out to the vestibule, to put on her cloak and bonnet.

Yvain pointed at a chair. "Sit, Marie. If you run off, so help me, I  _will_ write to  _maire_ and  _paire_ at once. Gauvain, I'll see you and the sisters who have  _manners and self-control_ out to the carriage."

When they were alone, Courfeyrac asked, "Yvain, if I promise not to tease you for the rest of the week, will you do me a favor?"

"Did you try and steal a policeman's helmet  _again,_ you heedless young reprobate?" asked Yvain, the majority of his anger saved for the newly dubbed Brocéliande. Yvain was almost cheerful as he bestowed his insults on his younger brother. But, then again, coming up with long-winded, derogatory sobriquets were Yvain's way of expressing affection. Courfeyrac found it easier just to embrace someone, but every character had its peculiarities.

"That was all part of the glorious battle for the freedom of the press. Though, speaking of the fight for truths one holds self-evident, er... some friends and I accidentally blew up someone's apartment."

"Whose?"

"It wasn't intentional, we just left some, er... hunting rifles too close to the fire."

"Hunting rifles," Yvain repeated. "I suppose that is as good a story as any. Did the police put you back on the watch, you bloodthirsty Jacobin?"

"They may have done. A friend of mine, Grantaire, always plays dice with the police inspectors, and he thought I might be under suspicion."

Yvain sighed and, just because he knew Courfeyrac hated it, ruffled Courfeyrac's curls. "Very well, you blackhearted scallywag. It would be futile to ask you to avoid being stupid, but try to be more careful. Laudine was almost agitated when cousin Theo said he saw her brother on the barricades, back in '30."

"We must avoid agitating Laudine," Courfeyrac said, looking heavenward.

"And it nearly gave _paire_  an apoplectic fit."

"Why? He's always told us stories of how there's a Courfeyrac on every side of a battle, to ensure the de Courfeyracs are on the winning side."

"Insolent rapscallion," Yvain said fondly. "Let me know if you need any other friends off the list. I am glad you ran into a friend of Blanchefleur's, I think she is too much in Laudine's shadow, and _far_  too much in her books."

The journey to the Rue de L'Homme Armé was enlivened by the usual, passive-aggressive fight over bonnets between Laudine, who loftily believed she knew all, particularly in comparison to her younger sister, and Blanchefleur, who only really cared to prove Laudine wrong on some eventual point. They had to get out of the carriage upon reaching the Rue de L'Homme Armée, as there were wooden beams stretching across the street, and Laudine and Blanchefleur were still quarreling through their smiles when Monsieur Leblanc's servant opened the door.

"Velvet in March, dear child, what can you be thinking?"

"I am thinking of keeping my head warm. I realize your head is particularly empty and thus needs no defense against the elements—"

"C-can I help you?" asked the servant, peering around the door.

Laudine produced an elegant gilt-rimmed calling card from her reticule. "The baroness of Beaulieu and her sister for Mademoiselle...?"

"Fauchelevent, I think," said Blanchefleur. "We went to school together, Cosette and I. I believe we were expected?"

"Th-this way, p-please," Toussaint stammered, showing them into the cramped little dining room. Monsieur Leblanc was at the table, mending some trinket Courfeyrac had broken in his fall. Cosette had abandoned her needlework and was deeply engrossed in one of the pamphlets Courfeyrac had accidentally left behind.

"Ma-mademoiselle," began Toussaint.

"Oh, you did come!" said Cosette impulsively, almost jumping to her feet. She curtsied to Blanchefleur and Laudine, as Courfeyrac and Monsieur Fauchelevent exchanged bows. "Mademoiselle Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac- I am not sure you remember me?"

"Of course I do, we used to steal cherries during our free time," Blanchefleur replied, nobly ignoring her sister. "Do you remember once when Mother Crucifixion almost caught us in the cherry tree?"

"Oh yes! And it was at the beginning of summer so the leaves weren't very thick. I was so frightened, I was imagining all sorts of perfectly horrible punishments. Doing  _la couple_ for days, and having to sleep under the altar like a cat, ten thousand 'Hail Mary's… but that was the same time there was that emigrée who played the flute."

"I had almost forgotten about him!" exclaimed Blanchefleur, with a laugh. "Do you remember Anastasie de Rochefort? She was  _so_ convinced that he was a young man with fair hair and a face suited more to an Adonis than a flute-player. Oh but we were in the tree, I remember—I boosted you up to get the cherries and then you said you saw Mother Crucifixion—"

"And I was so scrawny then I didn't think I could pull you up before she could see us—"

"But in the end it didn't matter because over the walls came wafting, ' _Ah! Zéltabe, come reign in my heart!_ ' And off went Mother Crucifixion, towards all the girls running towards the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard." Blanchefleur was a tolerable impressionist, and stomped around the little dining room, wheezing and clutching her side.

Cosette laughed—she had a pretty, musical laugh, like a lark trilling in the spring, and Courfeyrac rather wanted to keep her laughing. "I was never as curious as everyone else about the singer, I was still very new to the convent and…." She paused, searching for a memory as a seamstress delved blindly for a button at the bottom of her scraps bag. She came away with nothing. A little lamely, Cosette finished, "And I think I was afraid of being thrown out or something."

"You only get thrown out if you do something very bad," said Blanchefleur. "Like my sister, Marie. She bit Mother Crucifixion."

"She  _what_?"

"Bit her. Yes. I do have another, much better behaved sister—this is Laudine, the baroness of Beaulieu."

"Charmed," said Laudine, inclining her head. Not much escaped Laudine's half-lidded gaze; during Cosette and Blanchefleur's happy, schoolgirl reminiscences, she had taken in the poorly furnished apartment, Monsieur Fauchelevent in the corner, in his plain suit and spotless linen, the parcels wrapped in brown paper, Cosette's black damask gown, the elderly servant's bewildered mien.

"I hope you will forgive the mess, the roof caved in last night," said Cosette, aiming a glance full of laughter at Courfeyrac. He smiled back, a little ruefully. "We normally live in the Rue Plumet, but the house needed some repairs and it was dangerous to remain there. Papa, do you think they are quite finished now?"

Monsieur Fauchelevent hesitated before saying, "Of course, my child. We shall move back in within the week."

The mention of a street in the Faubourg St. Germaine, even if it was a quiet and unfashionable one, did much to elevate the Fauchlevents in Laudine's esteem. "I hope we may have the pleasure of calling upon you there as well. I see we have interrupted your reading."

"Oh, it is something Monsieur de Courfeyrac gave me," Cosette replied, holding it out. "It is so very interesting- I never really learnt about the French Revolution, except that it happened and was sad. It is so very strange the nuns never told us more, for my father mentioned last night he  _lived_ through the Revolution and I know as much about it as if it had happened centuries ago."

Courfeyrac took the pamphlet and examined it. It was one of Combeferre's pamphlets, explaining, very simply and clearly, what the Revolution had been and what historians and politicians had since distorted it to be. A quick skim through revealed that were no open calls for rebellion or outright condemnation of all monarchs. Courfeyrac did not often bless Combeferre for his mild thoughtfulness, be he did so now. "Ah ha, I wondered where that had gone."

"I never knew anything about the Revolution or Napoleon until I left the convent," added Blanchefleur. "But Laudine's husband is very political, he used to be one of Tallyrand's secretaries before he came into his title. He has the most  _amazing_ library, I wish you could see it."

"Of course she can," said Laudine, always happy to show off her beautiful home. "Do call on us whenever it is convenient. I have salons Tuesdays-Thursdays, but the baron and I are always at home informally on Fridays."

They talked politely for a further quarter of an hour on indifferent topics, though Monsieur Fauchelevent went back to repairing his trinket and quietly studied them. He did, however, personally show them out.

Courfeyrac hesitated on the landing as his sisters descended."I could see very clearly that you were not best pleased Mademoiselle Fauchelevent told my sister your address."

Monsieur Fauchlevent looked troubled. "We live such a retired life…."

"Ah ha, and I am already disturbing you with my graceless entry and my radical politics."

"How can I know that you will not bring the police to my door?" asked Monsieur Fauchelvent, softly.

"Unfair aristocratic privilege," Courfeyrac replied cheerfully. "My elder brother Yvain is a high-stickler for propriety and arbitrary rules, and got me off the watch list. He quite slandered my character in the process, saying that I had tried to steal a policeman's helmet because I was drunk, and all my fistfights with royalists were actually arguments over cards, and that explosion the other night just came from improper preparations for a hunting trip. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, depending on the turns of fortune's wheel, everyone in St. Germain who knows me is convinced Yvain's telling the truth and would laugh at any rumors of me being a dangerous radical."

Monsieur Fauchelvent still looked troubled.

"If you would rather just have my sisters visit, you need only say so," Courfeyrac continued on. "I like to think of myself as an honorable fellow—you have nothing to fear from me, though it is perfectly understandable that after two meetings, one of which occurred after an unintentional explosion a street away, you might have some reservations about my character. I can only trust that my sisters—who suffer no illusions about me—will change your mind. I hate being on bad terms with anyone."

Monsieur Fauchelevent merely nodded, and closed the door after him.

"What a kindly old widower," Laudine remarked, once they had walked out of the Rue de l'Homme Armé and had found their carriage once again. "Not a wealthy man, but a goodly, respectable taxpayer. I do pity your schoolfriend, Blanchefleur, you can see very clearly that she has never had a mother's guidance. I have half-a-mind to invite her to go shopping with us next week if I did not think the bill would embarrass her. People who live on their income in only tolerable comfort often have difficulty speaking of money."

"She could at least come with us to look at hats," said Blanchefleur, who was very tired of being the sole object of Laudine's condescension in matters of apparel.

"Yes—I think Monsieur Fauchelevent would be glad of some help. Poor man, he could not have known that a young girl never wears damask. I did like him. I think there was a trace of Toulon in his accent- I hope he plays  _boules lyonnais,_ the baron would be so happy to play  _boules_ to relax. In Paris no one plays by the same rules."


	3. In which Courfeyrac makes bad puns

"What happened to my pamphlets?" asked Combeferre, when Courfeyrac dumped the collection of smudged, crumpled and otherwise maimed collection of revolutionary propaganda onto the table. One of them fell into a puddle of wine, considerately provided by Grantaire earlier that evening. Combeferre looked pained and, though he merely adjusted his glasses instead of taking them off and polishing them, was clearly displeased. "Really, Courfeyrac, you could have been more careful, you were supposed to bring back two galley prints as well as our finished pamphlets."

"I have saved you from being a _galérien_. Eh?"

Combeferre stared at him.

"That was a pun."

"I know."

"Because you would work on a galley?"

Combeferre took off his glasses and began to polish them.

"Like a galley slave?"

Combeferre held his glasses up to the light, to see if they were clean.

"I had to explain that joke because it wasn't good," Courfeyrac owned.

"You needn't have explained  _that_. The merits of your joke were self-evident."

"I shan't in future, my oath on that. And I further avow that I have served the ball and it has landed on your half of the tennis court- you may hit the ball back and continue your unprofitable line of questioning, or you could just acknowledge my brilliant volleys and cede the match."

Combeferre pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Why a tennis court?"

"Don't you get it? It was a tennis court oath." Courfeyrac was enormously pleased with himself. Combeferre was less so. In fact, he stared at Courfeyrac in mild disbelief.

"You ought to have laughed at that one, it was, in my humble opinion, approaching the apogee of wit. Voltaire would bite his knuckles in envy of my cleverness."

"I would have laughed if two ruined galley sheets and half-a-dozen unreadable pamphlets did not represent a serious set-back not only in our efforts, but also in our budget."

"You are quite lucky to have them at all," Courfeyrac replied, as sternly as he could. "I fell through a roof."

"You  _what_?"

"You sound so surprised," said Bahorel. "Look at Courfeyrac. What about him makes you think he would  _not_ fall through a roof?"

"A sort of cat-like grace," suggested Jehan, spinning a chair around so that he could lean his forearms on the back. Romantic poets, according to his definition, never sat normally. Jehan quite often liked to sit with his legs up and his head near the floor, which made conversation rather difficult. "One looks at Courfeyrac and imagines that he must always land on his feet. I suppose we weren't friends yet when Bossuet got drunk and read all that Perrault, and called Courfeyrac the Marquis of Cabaras the rest of the evening? It was not an apt metaphor, of course he would be Puss in Boots."

"The amount of time you spend concerned with your clothing- and footwear- would support such an analogy," Combeferre said, much more sternly than Courfeyrac ever could have done.

"When I got ink smeared all over my red waistcoat just to protect  _your_ pamphlets!" Courfeyrac complained. "This is too much to be borne! I'd call you out only I know you are a much better shot."

"Are you really?" asked Feuilly who, as usual, was pretending not to be interested in the conversation.

"That is hardly the point I wished to make," Combeferre began.

Courfeyrac, not keen to be scolded on his less than successful feat of derring-do, interrupted, "Oh, you should have seen him back in '30 with a carbine! He never wasted a shot, even when he had to switch to a pistol, as the National Guard was charging at us- this was before they joined us-"

"Courfeyrac, I must point out that you were in a headlock the only time I recall having to rely on a pistol instead of a carbine or a hunting rifle."

"Are you insulted I only remembered two-thirds of your artillery? My apologies, one half, as you also had a sword. No wait... one... forth? As you had two pistols, and also a knife in your boot."

"Your arithmetic is off," said Combeferre. "Your final figure ought to have been one third."

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. "And that is all you have to say on the subject!"

Bahorel and Jehan laughed at that. Even Feuilly had to fight a smile. "How many weapons do you have on your person right now, Combeferre? Is the knife in your boot a permanent fixture?"

Combeferre nobly ignored his friends. "Courfeyrac, speaking of shooting, is your brother-in-law inclined to let you have a small group of friends for a hunting party any time soon?"

"How soon do you need an invitation?" asked Courfeyrac. "There's only deer hunting now, we don't start on waterfowl until August.  _I heard that, Bahorel._ "

Bahorel looked wounded, as if he hadn't just been coughing, 'death to the aristo' under his breath.

"By the by, Combeferre, I don't suppose you have any more pamphlets explaining in very basic terms all the political revolutions of the past fifty years?"

Combeferre looked pointedly at his ruined galley sheets.

"Have you found a new recruit, or are you still leaving things out for Marius to see them?" asked Jehan.

"He's a delicate flower," said Courfeyrac. "You crushed his petals too harshly, Combeferre. Marius now wilts at the sign of politics. I have no idea what he does with his time. He keeps having to borrow money, so, not working, but he refuses to wear an excellent green frock coat of mine outside the apartment, so, not chasing after whatever girl I assume he is in love with... unless he is merely suffering from  _mal du siecle._  It is the great disease of our generation."

"I would have to argue consumption," said Combeferre.

"Why do you need them?" asked the pragmatic Feuilly.

"Why is it I do anything?" asked Courfeyrac. "I met an enchantingly pretty girl who is fascinated by the correlation between bread prices and political unrest. Obviously I mean to seduce her over to republicanism."

Bahorel looked surprised. "I was not expecting that ending."

"I was," said Jehan, loftily, "but then again, poets can see things that ordinary men do not."

Combeferre, in his quiet, efficient way, had unearthed a textbook with pamphlets sticking out from between the pages. He pulled several of them out, studied them, and handed one to Courfeyrac. "Here. This is a good starting point. I realize you are more a Jacobin than a Saint-Simonian, but it is encouraging that you are concerned with women's education, however flippantly you choose to express it."

Courfeyrac took the pamphlet gratefully. "Thank you, dear friend. I'm off."

"Where to?" asked Jehan.

"Nude life-drawing class. Hope it's not too cold."

"I still can't tell when he's joking," said Feuilly.

"You have to admit, that is within the realm of possibility," said Bahorel. "Have you picked up a career in nude modeling? Will you be on display at next year's salon as Andonis or Bacchus?"

"No, but you will admit that was a very clever response."

Combeferre said, rather patronizingly, "Of course, Courfeyrac. We are all very impressed with your wit. You have displayed it so marvelously this past half-hour."

" _You_ are still annoyed I did not recall all of your arsenal. You will have to forgive me if you want to use it against grouse come fall."

His siblings probably would have been as happy as Combeferre if grouse season had unexpectedly been that spring; as it was, the de Courfeyracs had to resort to sniping at each other. Both Marie and Yvain were the best at this particular sport, as they both genuinely enjoyed being disagreeable and, to that end, had made breakfast so unpleasant that Laudine's husband had hidden in his study for the rest of the morning. Marie had even upended Laudine's morning coffee all over Blanchefluer's feuilliton, managing to infuriate both of her sisters at once.

As Marie was desperate to be included in things, Laudine decided to punish her by announcing a hat-shopping expedition, while Marie got another of Yvain's lectures. Marie's screeches at this pronouncement were inhuman and, when her newly hired governess was brought in to mitigate the noise, Marie began smashing Laudine's collection of Chinese porcelain. Into this mess stepped the Fauchelevents who, having been asked to come visit Friday afternoon, had faithfully done so.

Laudine had not actually expected the Fauchlevents to come. She had, in the manner of all great ladies she admired, carelessly dispensed her invitations, in the secure knowledge that there would be weeks of delicate social negotiation in public places before she invited them into her home. She found it distressingly bourgeois that someone was actually making her stick to her word, particularly when she was already dressed to go out, and her home was in such disarray. "Ah, Mademoiselle...?"

"Fauchelevent," Cosette said timidly, as Yvain and the governess chased the shrieking Marie out of the sitting room, past the Fauchlevents and up the stairs.

' _I hate you all!'_ and 'You spoiled little heathen, come back here!' echoed through the hall and up the stairs, to the accompanying strain of the governess's pleas that ladies did not smash Ming dynasty vases, or call their elder brothers foul-mouthed toads.

Cosette recovered with a meek, "I went to school with your sister?"

Blanchefleur was openly grateful to see Cosette, exclaiming, "Oh praised and adored be the most holy Sacrament of the altar! I was about to rip my head off if I had to go hat-shopping with Laudine again, particularly after the morning  _I've_ had. Everything Laudine likes is so fussy and over-decorated, and she takes  _forever_ to make up her mind. Will you come with us? We can at least gossip about everyone we knew at the convent while Laudine take a quarter of an hour to end up buying only a length of ribbon."

Cosette glanced at her impassive father before saying, "I would be very happy to accompany you."

Laudine glanced at her husband, coming out of his study and into the entry hall to see how his in-laws had ruined his house now. The baron was a pleasantly inoffensive man, gray-haired and gray-eyed, who dressed with an understated elegance, and liked to give the impression that he spent all of his time attending to his creature comforts.

Laudine turned to her husband with a smile. "Dearest, this is Blachefleur's schoolfriend, Cosette Fauchelvent, and her father."

"A pleasure," said the baron, bowing.

Monsieur Fauchlevent nodded, clearly uncomfortable.

_Not from money or family then_ , thought the baron. "I see my wife is about to whisk your daughter off to the Palais-Royale. Do you play billiards or  _boules_?" The baron took in the newcomer's broad shoulders and dress. It seemed quite likely that Laudine had accurately taken Monsieur Fauchelvent's measure; a widower, a veteran of some sort (perhaps of Napoleon's ill-fated Russian campaign, which would explain his general air of melancholy), and a gentleman of respectable, but limited means.

"No," Monsieur Fauchlevent replied.

Laudine threw a pleading look at her husband. It was not her idea of fun to have a sad widower share his opinions on hats all afternoon. Her husband, on the other hand, felt that he had nobly done his duty after a morning full of sound and fury.

The baron smiled politely. "A pity."

Monsieur Fauchlelevent inclined his head.

Laudine was so shocked at this evident betrayal that she didn't recover her wits until they had arrived at her Palais-Royale haberdasher.

Monsieur Fauchelevent attempted to have opinions on hats for the sake of his daughter, but it was impossible for him to determine what color of silk rose looked best under the brim of an upturned bonnet, or whether silk or satin ribbons were a better trim.

Laudine, sensing weakness like a lioness stalking gazelles on the Serengeti, attempted to pinch her sister on the arm. The enormous sleeves in vogue made this impossible, so the devastatingly fashionable baroness of Beaulieu was forced to step on her sister's kid-skin boot and hiss, "Play along!"

She held up an enormous hat, a vague throwback to the enormous hats of the 1780s. "Blanchefleur, doesn't this remind you of the Devonshire Picture Hat Mama wore in her engagement portrait?"

"No," said the unhelpful Blanchefleur.

Laudine was a resourceful woman; she could work with that. "No, no, I swear it was a broad-brimmed hat like this one, with feathers on it."

"It did not have a ribbon on the underside of the brim. Besides, she was wearing a turban. How old do you think mother is?"

"Monsieur Fauchelevent, you must have grown up in the 1780s, does this resemble the hats of your youth?"

Monsieur Fauchelevent was clearly bewildered by this. "Ah, my sister always wore a cap."

"I never knew you had a sister!" Cosette exclaimed, looking up from the effect of a mulberry, gross-grained ribbon on a black bonnet. "I have an aunt?"

Monsieur Fauchelevent was silent for a long time. Eventually, he said, "No, she died."

"How depressing," muttered Laudine. This was becoming a steadily bleaker afternoon outing. In a louder tone, she said, "Cosette, I think this black bonnet will look particularly well with your gown, I quite love all this ribbon massed about the crown."

"Oh, it's lovely!" exclaimed Cosette.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent," said Laudine, sensing her prey tiring, "what do you think?"

"It is lovely," Monsieur Fauchelevent said, dutifully.

She pursued him through the ribbons to the feathers and the silk flowers, where he steadily lost the will to fight, if not the will to live.

Laudine sensed her victory was nigh and therefore provoked a fight with her sister.

"That light blue one is very pretty with your eye color," exclaimed Laudine. "But I cannot like those feathers."

Blanchefleur scowled; she had picked out the bonnet for her friend to try on. "I think they are lovely!"

"She would do better with a spray of flowers- poppies or little rosebuds, they would look  _heavenly_ against that celestial blue."

"Flowers are so insipid!"

"No," said Laudine, frowning. " _Flowers_ are  _in._  Pray do not listen to Blanchefleur, she has only been out of the convent for a year."

"And Laudine is an old married lady with frumpy tastes," replied Blanchefleur, in a sing-song that brought out a hint of a Provencal accent. "You want a great mass of feathers."

"Only if you want dowagers to love you and men to refuse to dance with you," replied Laudine.

"Or maybe she dresses for herself, instead of the approbation of others," suggested Blanchefleur with syrupy sweetness.

Cosette's own tastes ran to the floppy masses of ribbon also in vogue, and, as she dug out a bonnet to show her trimmings preference, Laudine turned to Monsieur Fauchelevent with a triumphant smile.

"Oh you  _must_ settle our dispute," exclaimed Laudine. "Flowers or feathers, sir? I  _must_ know- oh no, I will not allow you to have no preference! Flowers or feathers?"

Monsieur Fauchelevent gave up the struggle. "I, ah..."

Cosette, taking pity on her father, exclaimed, "Oh, Papa! Is it not time for your usual walk? We are near the Tuileries, are we not? Perhaps you would like to walk as we finish here."

Monsieur Fauchelevent hesitated, clearly longing to be gone, but loathe to abandon his daughter.

"I can send a footman to get you once we are done," offered Laudine.

Monsieur Fauchelevent gave up. He nodded and left to stroll around the newly flowering square, though he first gave his daughter his purse.

Laudine was so proud of her victory, she ended up buying everyone's hats (she thought vaguely that the baron might not be so pleased, but she cheated at cards and could easily make up for any lost pin money). She even suggested they visit the fashionable modiste down the alley, near Paris's largest publisher. Of course, to get her way, Laudine had to let Blanchefleur run into the store and see if any of the Sir Walter Scott imitators had come out with new additions to their historical novels, but hers was the moral victory.

"Next time," Laudine said, a little smugly, "I will prevail upon the baron to entertain your father and teach him  _boules._ A word of wisdom in your ear, my dear- it is always good to encourage a man to take up an outdoor hobby. It will ensure domestic harmony for years on end."

Cosette spent the afternoon in a whirl of silks, satins and passive-aggressive arguments and, after she emerged from the shops, into the square, lost no time at all in listing her purchases to her father. "Though," she added, as her father hailed a hackney cab, "I do not think you would much have enjoyed it."

Judging by the conversation in the hat shop, Monsieur Fauchlevent had to agree. His love for his daughter wrestled with his instinct of self-preservation when Cosette said, "And we only had time to look at things in the dress shop- Blanchefleur invited me to come with them again tomorrow."

His heart quailed within him when he tried to say how happy he would be. Cosette very kindly said, "But they will come pick me up at the Rue Plumet." However, his daughter said, after a moment, "It must be so exciting to have siblings! Everyone is so lively. Did you and your sister quarrel instead of having ordinary conversation? I know you and my uncle never quarreled, you always got along so pleasantly. The de Courfeyracs  _argue_ so pleasantly in public though, one's never sure if they are really angry or if it's just a habit."

"No," said Monsieur Fauchelevent, after a moment. "We never had the time to do so."

But that was all Cosette learned of the aunt she had never known. The rest of the evening passed quietly. It had never bothered Cosette before, how little she knew about her family, or how calm and dull their little home on the Rue Plumet was, or how they never went out to shops or broke vases in anger. Cosette asked about her mother and her aunt, and even about her uncle, but her father said nothing. He preferred the stillness and quiet of their shuttered house and overgrown garden; Cosette was only beginning to discover her distaste for it. Hers was a lively spirit that never shrunk back from adventure, and her imagination was now swathed in mulberry ribbons and pomona green satins, far from the blacks and browns her father preferred. It surprised her, a little, that she wanted to be in a household so very different from the quiet, efficient one she ran on the Rue Plumet.

She thus jumped on the chance to have tea with the de Courfeyracs after she and Blanchefleur had finished their shopping. The house was just as lively as ever; the only difference was that it was a nice day, so everyone was being wild out of doors. She and Blanchefleur walked into Gauvain and Yvain apparently resolving some sort of billiards dispute by an impromptu duel through the formal gardens with their cue sticks, Marie chasing a small pack of the baron's hunting dogs, the governess chasing Marie, and the baron and baroness drinking glasses of champagne and ignoring the chaos around them by discussing the politics of their dinner party the previous evening.

Blanchefleur took in this scene with a sigh. "Well, par for the course. Gauvain, watch out for the rose bush!"

Courfeyrac pivoted neatly on his boot heel and whacked his brother on the arm with his pool cue. "Ah ha! A hit, a palpable hit!"

"I don't allow it, Blanchefleur distracted me," said Yvain, dusting the chalk off his coat sleeve. "Marie, what the hell are you doing with the baron's dogs?"

"This is my friend Cosette Fauchlevent from the convent, I'm sure it's a pleasure for you, Yvain," Blanchefleur monotoned, as Yvain began herding a pack of beagles with a pool cue. Courfeyrac came over though, and gave a flourishing bow the equal of the one he first gave Cosette when he fell through the roof.

"What a charming bonnet," exclaimed Courfeyrac, winning his sister's approbation. "Laudine mentioned you all went to her haberdasher the other day. I hope my sisters were a help instead of a hindrance."

"Oh, I am so greatly indebted to them," Cosette replied, flushed and happy. "I have never spent a more agreeable afternoon, except for today. I suppose you can have no opinion on ribbons and feathers and all that-"

"You wound me, Mademoiselle." Courfeyrac melodramatically put his hand over his lapel. "Do not my exquisitely tied cravat and my frock coat proclaim me a dandy on sight? I happen to like a mass of ribbons on a lady's bonnet, and I like yours in particular. You have such strikingly blue eyes, and your ribbons excellently brings out their color. Upon our first introduction I was quite struck with them."

Cosette pinked delicately. "That is very kind of you."

"Kindness? No, I should rather credit the Romantic ability to properly appreciate beauty."

"Oh stop flirting with Cosette, you will only embarrass us all," exclaimed Blanchefleur, impatiently. She hooked arms with Cosette, which was not easy considering the size of her sleeves. "Come on, I want to introduce you to Sir Walter Scott."

"Is he here?"

"What? No, he is an author- really, I cannot blame you, I never read anything secular until I left the convent. You will  _love Ivanhoe_ , and I am very sure you will prefer Rebecca to Rowena, as I do."

"Rowena is a lady," observed Laudine.

"And you are an idiot, " retorted Blanchefleur. " _Rebecca_ is a gentlewoman and a scholar. I know Gauvain will just say historical fiction is best when in verse, when it's English and then start arguing about how great a man Dumas is- only because you met him at some party when you were both stinking drunk and topped over a bust of Racine!"

Courfeyrac feigned aristocratic hauteur. "That is one of my most cherished memories and I will thank you not to tarnish it."

Cosette was staring wide-eyed at the proceedings, completely unused to the sort of semi-violent back-and-forth that characterizes a good chunk of most sibling relationships.

"I hope I have not alarmed you," said Courfeyrac, with a smile. "I am tossed about Romantically quite often, at the mercy of literature and strong emotion, but I am quite a sanguine fellow for all that. You have no need to fear me. I can never quite manage the catastrophic despair that characterizes a true Romantic."

"Oh no, you are- you are all so very lively- I am unused..."

"All my siblings have different ways of irritating people," Blanchefleur concluded. "Come on, it is nice enough to read outside in the garden. Gauvain, if you  _must_ be here, make yourself useful and get Laudine's copy of  _Ivanhoe_ from the library, and mine from the sitting room."

Courfeyrac delivered the books a minute later, and winked at Cosette before handing her  _Ivanhoe._

Cosette opened the novel to an unusual bookmark, and looked up curiously from under the brim of her new bonnet. She looked particularly charming in the dappled light of the garden, surrounded by the newly blooming flowers.

"A sequel?" asked Cosette, sliding the pamphlet out from between the pages.

"If you're interested," said Courfeyrac.

Cosette looked at the baron and baroness taking aperitifs on the terrace, steadfastedly ignoring Marie and Yvain passive-agressively herding the baying hounds at each other, Blanchefleur sprawled on a flannel blanket, engrossed in her book, Courfeyrac leaning against a tree, the afternoon sun bringing out the coppery undertones of his auburn hair. "Oh, yes."

 


	4. In which art imitates life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The performance I'm referencing here actually took place on 12 July 1823, but it's such a Courfeyracan event and has such a nice parallel both with Valjean's arc and my own themes, I hope you all will excuse my historical inaccuracy.

Cosette found the de Courfeyracs to be slightly intimidating. Of course, there was Gauvian, with his merry smile and cat green eyes, the chestnut curls spilling over his forehead, and the artfully pinned cravat around his throat. He always dressed well, but never to an intimidating degree, and there was always something about his manner- perhaps his habit of leaning towards whomever was speaking, or his considerable charm, or his redhead's complexion (he had coppery red hair as a child, though it had faded towards brown considerably since then) that always showed each blush and bruise - that invited comfort and confidence. He was always so genuinely pleased to see her happy, and it seemed impossible for him to fake something he did not feel, unless it was for a joke. And even then, he had a tell-tale crinkle around his eyes. After she had met him three times, Cosette determined that it was impossible to feel uncomfortable or anxious around Gauvain de Courfeyrac. He just wouldn't let you be unhappy while he was present.

It was equally impossible for Cosette to be anxious around Blanchefleur, who shared Gauvain's complexion and coloring. Her bright green eyes were just as kind, but so often trained upon a novel that Cosette never felt afraid of any judgments. Blachefleur was mild and gentle, eager to share her pleasures with any whom she thought might enjoy them, and equally happy to be left alone with her books. She and Cosette spent many a happy hour reading trashy feuillitons in the garden, or trying to guess at the endings of Walter Scott novels. Very little shook Blanchefleur, though many things annoyed her, for her life was almost entirely inward, made up of her novels and plays and ballets. As long as she had enough art to feed that vivid inner life of the imagination, Blanchefleur was perfectly content.

The others rather frightened Cosette, for they were fixed in the world, secure and proud of their positions, and a little bemused that the most affectionate members of their tribe had so taken Cosette to heart. Their hazel eyes were penetrating, and their judgments unveiled. Yvain, the eldest, was tall and thin, with thinning brown hair and a disposition that delighted in complaining. He was never happier than when he was roundly insulting someone, and never more affectionate than when he was calling his siblings foul heretics or mewling ingrates. He was not even half as handsome or charming as his younger brother, and Cosette was rather frightened of being labeled a 'mewling quim' as Yvain had once called Brocéliande.

Brocéliande was the youngest and, as she was the least pretty of her sisters, and quite aware of this fact, she was by far the worst. She dressed intentionally badly, to wound Laudine and Gauvain, who were particular in matters of dress, and improperly let her coppery red hair fall out of its braids. Brocéliande had yet to realize that her actions had consequences, or that other people were as capable of feeling as she was. Laudine, with her graceful figure and glossy brown tresses, was so elegant that Cosette was always painfully aware of her own inadequacies in Laudine's presence. Though Laudine never allowed a direct insult to pass her rouged lips, her downcast gaze and languid air hid a mind as quick and as penetrating as her siblings. Cosette was sure Laudine had seen all her flaws and all her failings upon their first meeting and only good manners and laziness were preventing her from telling them to all of polite society.

It was much more reassuring to be with Gauvain and Blanchefleur, who only expected her to enjoy herself when, where and as she pleased. Blanchefleur she saw quite regularly. Two or three times a week they would meet up to explore Paris and read novels and talk about the convent, or about people they saw when they were taking their walks in the Luxembourg with Cosette's father.

Gauvain she tended to see more by happenstance. He often would tip his hat to her when they crossed paths in the Luxembourg. Occasionally, when Blanchefleur was with them, or when Gauvain apparently thought Cosette's father was in a good mood, Gauvain would stop and say hello, and introduce whatever friend was accompanying him to class (or, more often, to a game of billiards). She would often see him in the poorer quarters of Paris, leaning his chair back on two legs, on the terrace of some cafe, loudly arguing politics with working men in smocks. She just as often saw him in the Palais-Royale, examining galley sheets with printers or running off to a fencing lesson, stopping long enough to quip with his sisters and pay her a flowery and wholly unnecessary compliment.

This always irritated Blanchefleur, who preferred to have a friend that was wholly her own, after a lifetime of sharing things with her siblings. She had various, inventive methods of trying to get Gauvain to leave them alone, though the most effective method was one she stole of Yvain; cheerful, disparaging insults.

"Go to, Wamba, go to," said Blanchefleur, hitting Gauvain with her novel. "No one marks you, or enjoys your nonsense any more than hearing a cat yowl at night."

"Which one was Wamba again?" asked the baron, almost roused to real interest.

"The fool," said Brocéliande, snottily.

Gauvain clutched his lapel. "Augh! How you wound me! Here I am named after the most gallant of knights, now reduced to a Saxon jester with bells on his hat. I cannot begin to say how such a social solecism upsets me."

"Blanchefleur, do not severely injure him," said Laudine, who was not even paying attention to the conversation. "Gentleman will be scarce as it is at my ball next week, and Gauvain can always be relied upon to dance every dance."

"A true knight," said Blanchefleur, rolling her eyes.

"I do not suppose your father dances?" Laudine asked Cosette, hopefully.

"I very much doubt it," said Cosette.

Laudine sighed and crossed a name off her invitation list. "A pity! I had several dowagers in mind who like a melancholy veteran. I could have kept them occupied for the entire evening without putting myself out unduly. Oh, child, you do know how to dance, I trust?"

"Me?" Cosette was considerably startled; she had not expected to be invited.

"Gauvain can teach you to waltz, at the very least, you need not fret yourself to death." Laudine tapped her pen against her rouged lower lip. "Actually, Gauvain could you teach Blanchefleur, too? She can do a gavotte and a minuet well enough, but her waltzing…."

"I can hardly refuse after you so handsomely offered my services," said Gauvain, as Brocéliande, eager to show off, scrambled to the piano and began searching for a waltz score. "Will this afternoon suit you, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent? This evening I promised a friend of mine to go see Frédérick Lemaître."

"Who?" asked Cosette.

"Poor Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, how you must suffer," exclaimed Gauvain. "Despite its name, the Boulevard du Crime offers the finest melodramas and miming in all of Europe. I was going to meet my friend Combeferre since he has spent far too long slaving away at Necker."

"Was he the one you always invite hunting?" asked the baron. "He is an astonishing shot. I enjoyed talking about guns with him."

"He knows rather more about them than anyone else I know," said Gauvain, "along with the valves of the heart, locomotives, steam engines, magnets, hot air balloons, geodes, Egyptology... he is a frighteningly well-informed individual."

"I am not opposed to getting a box at the Odeon, if one is to be had," said the baron. "Gauvain, if you will see to the details?"

Gauvain bowed from his seat, which Cosette thought was rather a neat trick. She liked it even better when he swooped her out of her seat and attempted to teach her to waltz, once Brocéliande had started banging out something resembling music while shouting, "ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three!" with smug satisfaction at, for once, calling all the steps. Gauvain taught her with more enthusiasm than actual, useful pedagogy. "We have to rush if I'm to secure a box," Gauvain apologized, readjusting her nervous grip on his arm, so that she instead rested her hand on his shoulder.

The other de Courfeyracs were as unperturbed by chaos as ever, the baron merely calling out advice on how one was supposed to hold one's arms, and Blanchefleur getting into an argument with Laudine, culminating in the line, "Whatever my predilection for the Gothic, Laudine, I will not dance with my own brother."

Cosette personally could not see why anyone would refuse to dance with Gauvain. He soon had Cosette laughing away her own mistakes and adventurously trying out all the positions the baron advised. There simply was something about Gauvain that invited trust- perhaps the hidden layer of practicality hidden beneath his customary flippancy, as seen when he whispered helpful little cheats to Cosette before she attempted some wholly new step, after which Gauvain would lead her into an exaggerated spin of triumph.

When she could successfully waltz around the sitting room, Gauvain spun her out for a final turn. Cosette curtsied. Gauvain bowed and kissed her hand, with the sort of consummate gallantry Sir Walter Scott was always talking about. "You learn extraordinarily quickly, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent."

"Only when I have good teachers," said Cosette. "Blanchefleur, do you remember Mother Immaculate Conception? I think she's the reason I don't know anything about the French Revolution."

Laudine grimaced. "I remember her. She left me with a lingering distaste for the Merovingian dynasty."

"I had wondered where that came from," remarked the baron, "but I always assumed that some ancestor of yours was insulted by Pepin the Short."

"You should ask Yvain, I am sure he would know. Gauvain, are you going to secure a box this evening, or not? I need to let my maid know at least two hours in advance if I am going out for the evening, otherwise she panics and makes my top-knot look thoroughly stupid."

"It's always thoroughly stupid," said Brocéliande, snidely.

"Someone needs to go to her lessons with her governess," said Laudine, in a sing-song.

"You can't tell me what to do, you inbred sack of meat!"

"You do, realize, Brocéliande, my pet, that we are sisters. If you insult my genealogy, you insult your own genealogy."

"Well- well your mother-"

"Is also your mother. Gauvain, are you going?"

Cosette's objections that she did not have a proper gown were overruled, as Blanchefleur offered to loan her one, and they had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon throwing skirts and belts and hoops about before actually dressing themselves for the theatre.

Of course, going out anywhere was a complicated matter if more than one member of Blanchefleur's family was in attendance. Initially, Laudine and Blanchefleur had been united in their wishes to leave Brocéliande at home, but ten minutes of screaming later, the baron overruled them in the interest of keeping what little, unshattered eardrum he still possessed. Laudine was so stunned by this overturn of her authority she left her dressing room before her maid had finished braiding gold paper roses into her top knot, and the poor maid was desperately chasing after her mistress with pins. This greatly annoyed the butler, who was doing his best to herd everyone out and into the carriage that had been waiting in the drive for the past quarter of an hour. Everyone was still crossly trying to make their points while wandering through the sitting room and entrance hall when Gauvain returned.

Much to Laudine's consternation, his friend Combeferre was with him. Combeferre was mild-mannered, very close to handsome, and had a habit of running a hand through his brown hair to keep it from falling into his eyes. He did this upon seeing the commotion in the entrance hall, though Gauvain took this in stride.

"Good thing I came early," said Gauvain, cheerfully handing his cane and top hat to the footman. "I see you are making your escape, Blanchefleur, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. Might we join you?" He deftly pulled Combeferre to the side, so that the lady's maid threatening to quit could better run to the door. Laudine began to realize the gravity of her situation at that point, and rushed after her maid, tossing a distracted, 'how d'ye-do' to Combeferre.

"Of course, Cosette needs to finish off Ivanhoe, she only has a few pages left." Blanchefleur skirted the chaos, which now prominently featured Brocéliande pulling her governess across the foyer by what appeared to be strength of will alone, and opened the door to the library. They spent a pleasant few minutes reading, Blanchefleur waiting eagerly until Cosette had shut the volume, to exclaim, "And?"

"Oh, I am so cross at what they did to poor Rebecca!" exclaimed Cosette. "I mean- I think, perhaps, she would be happiest if she never had to marry and got to devote herself to medicine, since that is what she loved, but Rowena was so awful to her. At least, I thought so. I would be horribly offended if someone told me to give up my whole way of life when that person had just made my happiness impossible."

"I fault Rowena more for being dull than for being mean to Rebecca by asking her to convert," said Blanchefleur. "And I know Sir Walter Scott meant Rebecca giving Rowena a casket of jewels was meant to show how noble she is, but that struck me as an excellent bit of revenge?"

"How so?" asked Cosette. "I thought he was pointing out that Rebecca was being more Christian than the actual Christians. Though, from what I remember from Mother Immaculate Conception, the Crusades were a thoroughly unChristian time."

"Well, just think of it. Rowena took Rebecca's chance at a normal Anglo-Saxon life, but Rebecca's part in that society was purely through finance. She flings it in the face of Rowena and all she represents and says, 'This was my key into your society, take it back, I reject you because you will never see me as your equal.'"

"But it is so wretched that she was forced onto that path," said Cosette. "She ought to have been treated as kindly as Rowena."

"Well yes, but part of the whole point of the book was that Jews ought to be treated as equals and weren't, and all the things that people blamed Jews for, or blamed Jews for being, were ultimately the fault of their oppressors."

"Inequality always breeds oppression," called out Gauvain, giving up the pretense of reading his newspaper.

Combeferre smiled, putting aside his own newspaper. "As Shakespeare has his Jewish merchant of Venice say, 'If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?' Certainly the Crusades proved the Christian ability to take revenge."

"Ugh, no more memories of Mother Immaculate Conception now that we are finally ready to go," exclaimed Laudine, appearing with perfectly arranged hair. "Come on, let us go- oh Blanchefleur, I told you to put rouge on over your freckles!"

"I like my freckles," Blanchefleur retorted.

This predictably engrossed the two of them in an argument about cosmetics that lasted until the curtain rose. The others were left to entertain themselves as best they could. The baron tamed Brocéliande into submission by pointing out all the important people in the audience. This left Brocéliande's governess, Mademoiselle Lanoy, free to reflect upon her situation. She had now spent enough time chasing after her charge to want out, however she could. A single gentleman doing an internship at Necker seemed a decent method of escape; Mademoiselle Lanoy began on a desperate flirtation with a gentleman who had no idea what she was doing. Combeferre accepted her compliments with bewildered hesitance but didn't know enough to return them in kind. She solicited his opinion on women, he responded with a treatise on free and universal education; she asked him how he liked Romantic poetry, he gave a dissertation of the history of the sonnet as a form of poetry; she talked of flowers and spring, he began a long explanation of the global weather conditions that caused the year without a summer in 1815.

Cosette was not aware of what was going on at first, as she and Gauvain were discussing Ivanhoe, or rather, switching between good-natured mockery of Sir Walter Scott's style, and a very serious discussion about social justice for religious minorities.

"I often feel like we are being introduced more to a character's clothes than the characters," Cosette admitted. "I do enjoy learning about all the details, but for the longest time I thought of Rowena as the lady with the veil rather than a person in her own right."

"That is true- we immediately meet Lord Cedric's tunic and, several pages later, we're meeting Lord Cedric himself."

"I suppose one can tell a great deal about a person from what they chose to wear- or what they do not choose, but have to wear. One can immediately tell a soldier by his dress, and the other characters are always... rather unfortunately, discriminating against Isaac of York because of what he wears, or I suppose has to wear since it was part of his religion to do so."

"In an unequal society, each man looks for some way to disdain his neighbor. I hate that it is so. If every man knew every other man was not his superior, or his inferior, but his equal, then we would eliminate much of the world's misery. There would be no striving towards the oppression of others for the elevation of oneself."

"It is- it is strange how they seize on something Isaac and Rebecca cannot help. At the end of the novel, I got the sense that even if Rebecca did convert and stay in England, she would still be treated as... less, even though she was much more interesting than Rowena, so much... more. Does that make any sense?"

"Yes- you know, I always had a little tendre for Rebecca," said Gauvain. "I first read Ivanhoe at boarding school- I had no other object to love."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Cosette. "The convent was like that. They wanted you to only love God, so they didn't let you have any other outlet. I had a doll-" She paused, frowning, before saying, slowly, "I had a doll before coming to the convent. My father gave it to me, and I loved it. My father- I think he worked away from where I was, when I was young, so all I ever had to love was my doll, and I had to give up even that." She shook her head. "Well. I did like Rebecca more. She is so... so very strong in the face of adversity. And I suppose I sympathize with her, since I recognize her situation. She has only her father and her faith to support her, and her charity is the focus of her life. Though I cannot say I have ever suffered any prejudice the way she has. Being a Catholic is a much less risky endeavor than being a Jew."

It was at that point when Combeferre, in some desperation, asked the governess if she had a favorite alkali metal.

Gauvain's shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter.

Cosette was more compassionate and said, "Oh, Monsieur Combeferre, I believe that I read a pamphlet of yours, calling for universal education- I am sure you would like it, Mademoiselle Lanoy- it was very simply written, even I could understand it."

"You give yourself too little credit," protested Gauvain. "Ah ha- but here's the play. It ought to be... interesting."

And so it was. Instead of the melodrama they had been promised about a famous robber, Frédérick Lemaître had decided to turn the entire play into a comedy. At the climactic finale, when the police inspector thundered out, "We know the true name of the culprit- Robert Macaire! And Robert Macaire-"

"Is you," replied Lemaître, much to the confusion of the police inspector. "Deny it if you can! Though you can't, it's not in the play."

The police inspector looked into the prompt box and gestured at Lemaître.

"You're stuck! By the time you think of another line, I shall have made my get-away- come, my accomplice, the play is not over yet!" This last part was thrown at the prompt box, a fact that the prompter surely wished was untrue. Lemaître ran offstage with his accomplice, much to the confusion of everyone involved in the production.

The police inspector blustered about onstage before coming up with a feeble, "Euh- euh- someone- someone stop them before they escape again!" directed at the stagehands.

The people in the box below applauded.

Gauvain leaned over the railing and burst out laughing. "That's Lemaître!"

"Euh, um, don't- don't move, you're surrounded," the police inspector said, getting back on script.

"Oh please, it's the first chance I've gotten to see a play," protested Lemaître, leaning back into his seat.

The police inspector blustered, "Enough speeches, you are mine!"

"No, you naughty boy!"

The police inspector threw his hands up into the air. "Oh really, come on, now! We know you are Robert Macaire. If you are not Robert Macaire, the escaped convict, then who are you?"

Cosette leaned over the railing to see Lemaître stand up and announce, "Who am I? Who am I? I'm Frédérick Lemaître!"

He earned an enormous round of applause.

"Liar!" expostulated the policeman. "I will arrest you!"

"Should I kill him first?" Lemaître asked his assistant.

"Killing gendarmes never hurt anyone," the assistant replied.

Lemaître drew out his prop gun and fired it, much to the astonishment of the police inspector. "Fall, you fool. You're dead."

The police inspector had no other option; he looked desperately at the prompt box before falling over. The actress playing Madame Macaire rushed out, loudly declaiming the death of her husband before realizing that Lemaître was actually watching the play offstage from his box. "He was a bad man but he was… my husband?" She clutched her face in bewilderment.

"Relax, my widow, false alarm," said Lemaître, cheerily. "A nd thus the real criminals-" pointing at three gentlemen Gauvain exclaimed were the authors of the piece "-are justly punished."

The audience roared with laughter.

"It does provide a vital lesson in endings, like Ivanhoe," said Combeferre thoughtfully. "One can always alter the course of one's own destiny, if one rejects the usual narrative of society. One must... go off-script as it were."

The baron's observations were more prosaic.

"I always thought the theatre was supposed to provide an escape," said the baron, dubiously, as the corpse leapt up and attempted to shoot Lemaître. "This is far too much like home."


	5. In which one visits the Loire

Monsieur Fauchelevent's heart was unquiet within him; it had been ever since his daughter began moving in the great and glittering world of Saint-Germain, a world that, to his peasant's heart, still seemed as distant and unknowable as the vast expanse of space above him. In the summer he thought perhaps to get some respite, and to selfishly keep Cosette to himself. But no, the de Courfeyracs had to envelop all around them in their chaos and their liveliness and had swept Cosette up in their noisy dance.

Cosette's first ball had passed almost pleasantly for Monsieur Fauchelevent. She was so frightened of the crush of people she stayed mostly by her father's side and chatted with him about music and the gowns of the ladies, and the Walter Scott novels she was reading. The de Courfeyrac boy who had fallen through the roof spent most of the evening chattering away in the bright, sing-song patois of Aix with a group of other young men. From his time in Toulon, Monsieur Fauchelevent could pick out a word here and there- enough, at any rate, to be reassured that though the de Courfeyrac boy waltzed with Cosette twice, he was more interested in the high romance of revolution than in romancing Cosette. In fact, the de Courfeyrac boy seemed more inclined to talk very seriously about social justice issues with Cosette than flirt with her, which gave Monsieur Fauchelevent a certain measure of relief. (The de Courfeyrac boy also arranged for several of his friends to dance with Cosette, but each time Cosette came back talking about the fights between Rousseau and Voltaire, the topography of Southern France, or once, very oddly, alkali metals, which did not unduly worry Monsieur Fauchelevent.)

Ostensibly, they had left the convent for Cosette to experience the world before renouncing it. Monsieur Fauchelevent supposed he ought to be grateful Cosette was reminded, in the midst of the most elegant surroundings, of the misery and poverty that existed only a few streets away. This does not kill that- the sumptuousness of a ball in the Faubourg St. Germain existed, in large part, because of the poverty in the Faubourg St. Michel.

Still, this did not mean he liked the idea of leaving Paris during the unpleasant days of August and throwing themselves wholly on the mercy of the de Courfeyracs.

"You must let your papa know I shan't take no for an answer," he overheard Blanchefleur hiss to Cosette. "Gauvain's bringing some of his friends along, so it's perfectly fine. And, you know, he will be with them, shooting at things, most of the time, so I will only have Laudine and Brocéliande to talk to, and perhaps Yvain. You wouldn't make me sit with them all August, would you?"

"Of course not," said Monsieur Fauchelevent's too tender-hearted daughter. "We have only just started the Waverly novels, too! I couldn't possibly read on without talking over what happened with you."

"And we have Notre-Dame de Paris to start!" exclaimed Blanchefleur, "which Gauvain said was amazing. I don't know, I didn't like Han of Iceland very much, which was by the same author. It was too Gothic even for me, all about pyromaniac red-haired dwarves riding polar bears and drinking seawater out of skulls, with very few mysteries to be unraveled. But perhaps I will like this one, since it is historical."

Before Monsieur Fauchelevent could think to say that they would refuse, or that they would have other plans, Cosette clasped his hands and said, "Oh, please, Papa! Please let's go!"

The close proximity of so many worldly people was a terrifying idea; the close proximity of all the de Courfeyracs, crammed into one house, along with the de Courfeyrac boy's seditious friends, was enough to make Monsieur Fauchelevent almost tremble at the thought. "My dear child-"

"And they are not going all the way to Provence," added Cosette, at the prompting of her friend. "Just to the Loire Valley. I have never been there, I don't remember ever being outside of Paris. Oh Papa, please do say that we can go!"

Monsieur Fauchelevent dared any other father to withstand that pleading look. He gave in like a Japanese paper screen during a tsunami. And, as it turned out, he had no cause to repine. Notre Dame de Paris had come out that January, sparking a renewed interest in Gothic, medieval and Renaissance architecture. One could not find a better place to explore this sudden appreciation for cathedrals and castles than the Loire Valley, with the large, stone towers of its cities rising up from the crystalline splendor of all the low, gentle rivulets of the Loire. The populace was inured to the sight of Francois I's hedgehogs stamped on the cobblestones, but to Cosette, it was as if she had wandered into a medieval romance. Monsieur Fauchelevent loved nature more than he loved any man-made edifice, but he was roused to real admiration when Cosette took him by the hand and tugged him around magnificent formal gardens, each section of shrubbery looking as if it floated amidst clear, blue pools of sky. All was gray and blue and green, from the waters of the Loire, with the soft grasses about them, to the gray castles with their blue roofs and magnificent gardens. On the days where Monsieur Fauchelevent accompanied Cosette and Blanchefleur on their quest to see every castle within driving distance, Monsieur Fauchelevent was perfectly content.

Cosette was happy, he was in nature, and nothing was required of him, except his presence and his willingness to walk in well-cultivated gardens. He had a purpose that was appreciated by the rest of the party (most of whom did not share the teenaged need to see dramatic landscapes and therefore preserve them as the backdrops of one's imagination, or, to be honest, most of whom merely did not appreciate Blanchefleur's motion sickness). He had the smiles of his daughter, who had entirely forgotten her misery from earlier in the year. She was happy again, fresh and flowering, delighted by everything she saw. And Monsieur Fauchelevent was daily grateful that this new vivaciousness was not caused by that poet in the Luxembourg, or by the de Courfeyrac boy and his friends (who seemed obsessed with shooting), but by books and castles, and Cosette's newfound ability to share these pleasures with her father and her friend. But then again, Cosette's sorrows and embarrassments had always been like clouds passing across the sun- she felt the darkness deeply, was lost in her pain and unhappiness, but it passed soon enough and all was sunny once again.

As for the others, they were content to see Monsieur Fauchelevent at dinner, then did not care if he retired early, or took his habitual nocturnal strolls.

Cosette was having the happiest summer she had yet experienced. She had never before seen a castle, and now she had dozens of them to sketch and to use when she read Scott or de Troyes. She had never been part of a house party, though the books Blanchefleur loaned her often mentioned them. It was difficult for her to say what she enjoyed more: the days she spent exploring the Loire Valley, or the days she spent on the baron's estate in Blois. Exploring castles was a wonderful adventure, but she was very much enjoying the sumptuousness of the baron and baroness's table, the easily available company of young people her own age, and the long afternoons reading in the formal gardens with Blanchefleur.

"Have you ever been in love?" Cosette asked, as they lounged on an old tartan, in the baron's cherry orchard. Cosette was flipping through Manon Lescaut, which she had been instructed, under pain of having to spend an entire day acting as Brocéliande's governess, to never tell her father she had read.

Blanchefleur looked up from One Thousand and One Nights. "No, why do you ask?"

"I have no idea whether or not to believe any of this book," said Cosette, "after Monsieur Combeferre spent a quarter of an hour telling us all about the topography of Louisiana. I know we never really covered geography at the convent, but it seems to be that you cannot have a desert right outside of a swamp."

"No, that does seem unlikely," agreed Blanchefleur. "But I have no idea about the rest, we were educated by nuns, the life's journey of a fallen woman is justifiably foreign. Much more exciting, of course- I bet whenever Manon read contemporary poetry, they didn't replace the word 'amour' with the word 'tambour.'"

"I got such a shock when I realized that the Song of Songs wasn't actually about drums."

Blanchefleur flopped down onto her stomach and took Manon Lescaut from Cosette. "I wonder why that was. I mean, surely it is better for a girl to go into marriage or the convent or I suppose some profession-" though this last was said dubiously "-in the full knowledge of what each of them would be like. An informed decision, you know."

"I suppose the nuns wanted us to love only God," offered Cosette.

Blanchefleur snorted. "I think that's rubbish. You should love loads and loads of things. I have at least twenty books I love more than the Bible, for they are more internally consistent and have better plots, and I still haven't done anything worth confessing about. I argue with Laudine, yes, but I bet the Virgin Mary would be moved to quarrel with Laudine. Have you ever been in love?"

"Almost," said Cosette. "For I think six months or so there was this shabby poet who always followed me and my father around the Luxembourg when we took walks. He always looked very sweet, except once he got very sullen for no reason. And I suppose- I was always really, remarkably happy to see him."

"That sounds like a puppy, not a lover," objected Blanchefleur. "Did you ever talk to him?"

"No," admitted Cosette. "We only ever just looked at each other."

"Not much of a lover at all," concluded Blanchefleur. "But I think we can throw out Manon Lescaut as a sentimental melodrama about how terrible it is to love money over another human being. Well maybe not 'throw out,' but I shouldn't like the sort of slavish devotion divorced from rational understanding that Des Grieux has for Manon. I do like the idea of a land without class differences, too, but I think all of America is like that, except where they have slaves." Blanchefleur absently picked a blade of grass and spun it between her fingers. "I should like trying to be in love someday, as a sort of experiment. Do you think you were in love?"

After a moment, Cosette said, "I don't quite know. I suppose I could have been, if I ever learned his name or spoke with him. In Atala, Chactas only had to see Atala to think she was some sort of goddess and then fall desperately in love with her... but then they were always getting snapped at by alligators and Atala poisoned herself so she wouldn't break her vow of chastity, so... perhaps it's better we never spoke and I never had to poison myself out of ignorance."

"I wish I liked Chateaubriand more than I do, but he is so insistent on how wonderful Christianity is and how awful everything else is, it just reminds me of Mother Immaculate Conception."

"I wonder," Cosette said, hesitantly, "if any book is really- really all true. That is to say, I do understand that Ivanhoe and Rowena and Rebecca never existed, but..."

"I know what you mean." Blanchefleur propped her chin on her folded arms. "A novel is true in a different way that a history book is true. But, you know, every book has an author, who writes the book for a reason. I didn't like Atala because Chateaubriand's point was that Christianity is the best thing ever, and I'd had enough of that at the convent. I like his poems about death better."

"I don't know if any book on love is really true- not for me yet, I mean to say. The novels I've borrowed from you that are more about love than great historical events are about women who fall in love and then die horribly. I was almost in love once, but I would really rather not die horribly."

Blanchefleur nodded. "I will often put down one of those books and think, 'Yes, I understand, I ought to prepare myself for a well-informed marriage of convenience so that I do not die from poor life choices.'"

Cosette worried at her lower lip. "Can one be in love and be happy?"

"If you are going for a comedy instead of a tragedy," Blanchefleur replied dubiously. Then, pushing herself up onto her forearms, replied, "No, wait, Cosette, we shall engage in a knightly narrative, and after someone comes to Paris to challenge us, move to America to fulfill some sort of quest, wander all through the states while having unspeakably thrilling adventures meeting George Washington-"

"He's been dead for thirty years," objected Cosette, who had been trying to fill in the gaps of her historical knowledge.

"-Thomas Jefferson, then? Whoever, someone really famous who is amazed by how clever and talented we are, and whom we save from certain death at the hands of improbable British redcoats, and then settle down to run a reading-room where one can rent duodecimo romances by the hour, and tell the children of... I can't think of any American cities. New Orleans? Somewhere with shockingly pretty landscapes, about how we were forced from our settled lives into unexpected journeys full of near-death misses where we were saved by our inherent virtue, or by people we were kind to earlier. That completely cuts out any chance of accidentally being lead down the path of easily avoidable suicide."

"You would hate it," exclaimed Cosette, trying not to laugh. "You got so sick from the carriage ride from Paris to Blois, how could you manage a sea voyage, or dashing gallops throughout all of the United States?"

"Through strength of will."

"That is not very much good against motion-sickness."

"How can you say that with any certainty? Have there been any scientific tests to prove it one way or the other? Hm?"

Cosette, laughing, could only gasp out, "Oh you are too much!"

"Well," said Blanchefleur, relenting, "let us at the very least climb this tree and pick cherries like we did at the convent."

It was delightful to Cosette to climb again, even if her more fashionable attire made it difficult to swing up on branches with the alacrity to which she had been accustomed. Once at the top, she saw a strange sight: a long procession of latticed wagons, filled with dark lumps in chains and surrounded by men in uniforms. She could not at first distinguish if it was a funeral procession; it was horrible to her to see that the sepulchral figures behind the lattice-work were living, breathing people. "Oh, goodness, look there!"

The road was not very far from the baron's walled orchard. In front of the wall various laborers and servants had stopped in their perambulations to watch the procession roll slowly by. The wagons drew closer. Cosette was able to distinguish some marks of individuality about the men, though they all wore the same linen trousers, wooden shoes, and dull, sullen expressions. Several had tattoos of flaming hearts, of cupids, of anchors, others had horrible red blotches, and here and there one could see a worn coat, a shapeless hat, broken accoutrements that would have better suited a harlequinade than such a sombre procession. There were village children following the wagons at a distance, shrieking with laughter. Their reaction almost convinced Cosette that this was some sort of terrible circus, some troupe of traveling players that had fallen upon evil times.

One of the guards then hit a man who leered at a milkmaid. The milkmaid withdrew and snapped at one of the stable boys, "See? That'll happen to you if you aren't careful!"

"What are those men in those carts?" asked Cosette, horrified.

"I think they are convicts," said Blanchefleur, clearly uncomfortable. "Sometimes they pass through here, on their way to the galleys at Toulon. The baron always complains that they pass so near his property. I had no idea how wretched it was. It reminds me of Bug-Jargal and all those novels about slaves in the colonies."

Cosette spotted her father, on his usual walk, watching the procession from further up the road. He spotted the printed muslin of their gowns, bright against the green and red of the cherry tree and seemed to come back to himself. He raised his hat and very quickly came to see them in the orchard.

"Did you see the procession?" asked Cosette, scrambling back down the trunk.

Her father looked almost glassy-eyed, but that could very well have been the sun in his eyes. "Yes, my child."

"They were convicts, were they not?" asked Blanchefleur, with a shiver. "Lord, one reads about such things, but one always imagines the author exaggerates the misery of it."

"They were," replied Cosette's father.

"The baron said those men march to the galleys," said Cosette, jumping to the ground, more the child she had been than the imaginative, elegant young lady she had become. "What are the galleys like, if that's their way of getting there?"

"Worse," was all her father said.

"I suppose it is not a suitable topic of discussion for young ladies," said Blanchefleur, almost relieved to hide behind proprietary. But she could not help her shudder and her exclamation, "Such misery! Have you ever seen the like? They must have all done horribly wretched things to be locked up like that."

Cosette said, uneasily, "I suppose so."

It was perhaps the first time in his life where Monsieur Fauchelevent felt grateful to see the de Courfeyrac boy. He and his bespectacled friend were walking back to the gunroom through the orchard.

"Hallo Gauvain!" called Blanchefleur, who was equally grateful for the distraction. "Are you going off for the hunt?"

"Of course, Combeferre has not killed anything in months. Poor fellow! I cannot possibly deny him this treat."

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said, exasperated. "Part of the Hippocratic oath is, 'Do no harm.'"

"Except to deer and small birds," Courfeyrac replied, cheerfully. "Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, you look troubled. Is anything wrong?"

Cosette summoned up a smile. "Oh no- it is only- there was a procession of convicts and it frightened me, rather. I cannot see how anyone could- could wish to do anything so bad as to be punished the way they were."

"That is because you have a good heart," said Courfeyrac, with a smile, "and a very sweet disposition. There are some men who let their desires overrun their good sense and then they cause great injury to others. If they are bad at it, we call them convicts. If they are good at it, we call them kings."

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre began.

Courfeyrac assumed an innocent expression. "Fine, fine, I concede the point that few who are arrested had any real lust for evil. Often the influence of poverty or the influence of some greater force…." Courfeyrac hesitated, which Cosette had never seen him do before. He often just spouted out whatever occurred to him, his only standard of self-editing being whether or not his next phrase would be sufficiently amusing. "Well, Combeferre is better equipped to tell you of how the want of something- usually money, oftentimes glory- can force a man to previously unthinkable violence. Some wants do, of course, hurt others and those cannot be tolerated, but I saw a man for want of bread to give his children, try to rob a hackney coach. That, to me, does not merit the galleys the way a murder would. But, that is the opinion of a student of the law, and not a very dutiful one at that. Perhaps medical science has better answers. Or-" seeing Monsieur Fauchelevent's expression "-perhaps not. Sir, are you for the hunt?"

"I had not planned on it," said Monsieur Fauchelevent, uncertainly.

Courfeyrac, sensing weakness, brought his considerable charm of manner down to bear upon Monsieur Fauchelevent. Ten minutes later, Monsieur Fauchelevent was being lead to the stables and put on a horse. He did not at all believe Courfeyrac's insistence that he was the equal of any man there, but dubiously sat astride a very gentle gelding, and watched the baron's stallion wander out of its padlock to nibble on the hedges.

"Dupont, where are you!" shouted the master of horse, abandoning Monsieur Fauchelevent to run after the horse. "Those are yew hedges! If the baron's horse dies of yew poisoning, so help me...!"

"It won't, it won't!" exclaimed the stable boy, sprinting towards the horse. "I swear I locked the padlock sir!"

"It was those children chasing after the convicts, I've no doubt," said the master of horse, grasping the stallion by the reigns and pulling it away. "There we are, that's a good lad! What a good horse- Dupont, let that be a lesson to you. The evil impulse starts early. Lord I wish the baron kept those brats in school during the harvest. They'll break into a house someday and end up on the galleys, too."

The stable boy grimaced. "Can you imagine if one of those galley slaves got into the house?"

And Monsieur Fauchelevent's heart was unquiet within him once more.


	6. In which Cosette and Courfeyrac get caught in the rain

In the middle of the hunt, separated from the others, Monsieur Fauchelevent heard a horn echoing distantly. He turned his horse and went towards the source of the noise.

The baron was trapped beneath his fallen horse; Monsiur Fauchelevent acted before even thinking, jumping off his mount, raising the dead weight of the horse long enough for the baron to drag himself away on his forearms.

"Thank you," said the baron, considerably shaken.

Monsieur Fauchelevent dropped the horse with a grunt.

There were thrashings and confused shouts from the bushes; the de Courfeyrac boy and one of his friends came crashing through the underbrush, leading their horses.

"The devil!" exclaimed the de Courfeyrac boy, hastily loping his reins around a tree branch. "Maurice, did your horse get its foreleg stuck in a rabbit hole?"

"No, no, it convulsed and fell," said the baron. "Perhaps I drove it too hard. The poor beast was nervous and clumsy most of the hunt. Fortunately, Monsieur Fauchlevent heard my horn and helped lift the horse. My God, you are strong, sir. I owe you much."

"You owe me nothing," said Monsieur Fauchelevent, embarrassed.

The de Courfeyrac boy's friend- Combeferre, was it?- pulled a knife from out of his boot, and cut the baron out of his boot and one of his trouser legs. Combeferre did mysterious things over the baron's leg before proclaiming, "A very clean tibia fracture, easily set and easily mended, though you shall have bruises all over your leg. You are quite lucky."

"I am very lucky Monsieur Fauchlevent was here," said the baron.

Laudine was as flustered as she was capable of getting when she saw the baron's leg bound up with sticks and cravats. She hung round the baron's couch wringing her hands well after the doctor had come and gone, and banned anyone besides Laudine, Monsieur Fauchelevent and the baron's valet from the library. "Oh, I cannot think how we will get on, I cannot think of what would happen to us all if you died!"

"It would be very painful for us all," agreed the valet.

"I should find it ever so painful," said Laudine. "The baron would not, perhaps, because he would be dead, but I would be very uncomfortable, I assure you."

"No one would doubt you on that score, madame," said the valet.

"Let us avoid such grim subjects," said the baron, accepting a glass of laudanum from his valet. "Will you take half, my dear? I will recover much more quickly if I know you are not thrown into panics and chiefly occupied by predicting my untimely death."

Laudine accepted this gratefully, and spent the next half-hour dreamily reading aloud from the baron's favorite travelogue, before falling asleep. It was one of the rare moments where Monsieur Fauchlevent actually felt himself at home around the de Courfeyracs. All was calm around the hearth, the only expectation of adventure could be safely contained behind stretched morocco leather and put away before anything could threaten the sense of comfort and well-being.

"I am almost glad to have broken my leg," said the baron. "This is the pleasantest my house has been since Laudine took on her sisters."

Monsieur Fauchlevent nodded without thinking.

"I find that as one ages, one is more inclined to rest on one's laurels and enjoy the peace- particularly after the tumult in which we grew up, eh?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent smiled uneasily, but fortunately the baron did not require a conversational partner, merely a captive audience. Feeling pleasantly hazy from the laudanum, the travelogue already encouraging him to think of his own trials and adventures, the baron rambled on about his life. Any decent storyteller could have made an excellent novel out of the baron's travels, his diplomatic career, his intrigues at home and abroad, but the baron had been brought up in the eighteenth century school of thought, where eloquence was very highly prized. Monsieur Fauchlevent listened attentively and often wondered to himself how he had spent nineteen years in prison for stealing a loaf of bread and breaking a window pane when the baron had been so richly rewarded for more or less stealing countries.

This left the baron with a feeling of intense good nature towards Monsieur Fauchlevent that lasted long after the laudanum had worn off. He often requested Monsieur Fauchlevent's company in the afternoon, which Monsieur Fauchlevent, overawed by the baron's title, often gave. Monsieur Fauchlevent was always nervous during these interviews, but as he was not required to speak, he soon fell into his old habit of smiling benignly at the privileged, and interposing some very practical observations on horticulture, as he had done with the aristocrats of Montreuil-sur-mer.

"How lucky it was your brother ran into the Fauchelevents!" exclaimed the baron, at the end of their stay in the Loire. "They are thoroughly decent people and I shall be glad to know more of them when we are in Paris again."

"Oh yes, quite," agreed Laudine. It had been very convenient for her to let Monsieur Fauchelevent take on some of her more onerous duties towards her family, i.e. escort Blanchefleur on tours of yet another Renaissance castle, and listen to the baron's laudanum-induced ramblings. After the baron's accident, it had fallen upon Gauvain to escort Blanchefleur and Cosette to the various castles of the region. He bore this with tolerable good grace, as his friends left soon after the baron's accident, and he always liked flirting with a pretty girl- and Laudine had enough good feeling for the Fauchelevents to admit that Cosette was extraordinarily pretty.

Cosette could not say she much minded the change of escort. As much as she enjoyed the company of her father, it was much more pleasant to lean upon the arm of a charming young dandy as he made increasingly awful puns about absolute monarchy. Blanchefleur did not much mind either, as Gauvain was her favorite sibling, and was always willing to procure her the most lurid installations of Gothic novels, released serially, but did not value his company on these expeditions the same way Cosette did. To Blanchefleur, Gauvain was just a sillier companion, willing to do potentially stupid and/or dangerous things because it appealed to one's imagination; to Cosette, he was an object of fascination with an equal hold to any of the castles in the Loire.

To be fair, Cosette reasoned with herself, one afternoon, as they read in the garden, she did not know many young men. But from the young men she had seen, she still thought Gauvain a superior being. He was so willing to please and to be pleased, so very kind, and so very careful not to let his teasing injure anyone. It also astounded Cosette how he could find common ground with just about anyone. Just half-an-hour earlier, he had been discussing the merits of various horse breeds with the stableboy, and now was discussing a collection of German, Romantic short stories with Blanchefleur.

"He always runs into the conflict between reason and imagination," said Courfeyrac, "but here I think Hoffman struggles to put how we experience beauty into words."

"I think- I think beauty is often just sensation," offered Cosette, who was almost used to having her opinion taken seriously by others. "That makes it a great deal more difficult to recall it in a moment of tranquility and pull it to pieces to describe it."

"Horror is the same way," said Blanchefleur. "Lord, remember those convicts, Cosette? I can't put into words the horror it inspired within me- and not the good kind, like you get from the dungeons of empty castles or a good Gothic mystery, just sort of... dread. It was like falling down a stair you didn't know was there, more than anything else, that sort of... swooping in your stomach and blankness in your head. I suppose any grand emotion is like that."

"I don't think love is very much like that at all," said Cosette, doubtfully.

"Well, it is often more sensation than anything else," said Courfeyrac, with a laugh. "And its effects are all wordless- sighs and distractions, euphoria and a sort of dazed mein."

"Have you ever been in love, then?" asked Blanchefleur.

"It often pleased me to think so at the time," said Courfeyrac, "though there has always been some impediment to block my feelings from taking deeper root in my corrupted spirit, and making my affections permanent."

"Corrupted by what?" asked Blanchefleur, exasperated.

"My republican ideals. I fell in love with the republic very early on, and nothing has ever really challenged the hold they have upon me."

"Oh do be serious, you indolent dandy," snapped his loving sister.

"I think he was," said Cosette.

Courfeyrac turned to her with something like surprise. "Ah, you see, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent understands me. Is it so very difficult to parse my nonsense, Blanchefleur?"

"Very," said Blanchefleur. "Cosette's just more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for, so of course you're surprised when she sees the heart of the matter. No, don't blush at me, Cosette, you know it's perfectly true. Really, Gauvain, most people can't tell when you're being serious and when you're being silly. You are putting me out of good humor, which is dreadful of you since it is our last day before returning to Paris."

"I am a sore trial to you, am I not?" Courfeyrac gave a melodramatic sigh and placed his hands over his heart. "How you wound me, I, who have always contented myself in the knowledge that I am your favorite brother!"

"You haven't much competition," replied Blanchefleur, truthfully, if unkindly. "Lord, but I am glad that Yvain went down to Provence. He really ought to have taken Brocéliande with him, but I live in the hopes that Maire will ask him to bring her down."

"Poor Blanchefleur, you really are unhappy to be going back to Paris, aren't you?" asked Courfeyrac.

Blanchefleur sighed. "I do love Paris, but there are expectations on me there that I do not have here. I can grab Cosette and we can run off to see castles whenever we wish and Laudine won't say a thing about marriage or making ourselves presentable. We have only ourselves to please."

"You needn't marry if you dislike the idea so much," said Cosette, grasping her friend's hand. "You can live with me and my father and we'll go see castles every weekend." As soon as she said it, she realized how impractical such an idea was, but it cheered Blanchefleur considerably, and they built magnificent castles in the air of their future adventures.

Courfeyrac took Cosette aside when they gathered up their things at the sight of some rainclouds. "That was kind of you."

"She was unhappy- but I wish there was something I could do that was..." Cosette hesitated, and looked at Blanchefleur's now distant silhouette. "Oh, I don't know. As far as I know, I haven't a dowry, so perhaps we will end up giving music lessons out of the Rue Plumet when we're old."

"You don't wish to marry?" asked Courfeyrac.

Cosette considered this. "Perhaps if I was in love, but I think I am rather too young to know for certain what I'm going to do next week, let alone what I shall be doing for the rest of my life. I don't understand how you have already chosen a profession."

"That's quite easily understood," said Courfeyrac, with a laugh, "as my parents chose it for me. I have no objections, there is very little required of Parisian law students, and anything I would like to do in future requires at least some knowledge of the law. I am allowed some liberty, at least."

"I think if my father could choose a path for me, he'd have me be a nun," said Cosette, "so I am very glad that I, too, have been allowed a little liberty to decide my own future. As much as one is capable of deciding one's future."

"I like your thinking," said Courfeyrac. "And I think I rather like you, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."

"I rather like you too, then," said Cosette. "If only because you were kind to me about liberty."

"And equality and fraternity- I shall always be kind to you on those matters."

Cosette laughed. "Oh, so you were being quite honest earlier. I think you really are a better person than most young men. Oh, is that rain?"

"Ah ha, yes it is." Courfeyrac held a hand out and sighed when he felt the droplets landing on his palm. "And I was hoping we could avoid rain until we got back to Paris."

Cosette placed her hand in his. "Come on, then- if we run perhaps we'll avoid the worst of it."

Of course, her optimism really triggered the downpour. Courfeyerac was at first disgruntled at the ruin of what had been a really splendid cravat. However, Cosette laughed at getting caught in the rain, and nearly flew over the grass, his hand in hers, and it was impossible to be glum in the face of such naked delight.

"I was hoping to get caught," she said, breathless with laughter once they arrived at the folly on the grounds. It was not much of a fake ruin, as the walls and roof were quite strong, despite the amount of money the baron had spent to make them look thousands of years old. "It was so hot today! It makes one long for the year without a summer. Even if one was unhappy with the cold it would be lovely to have a spate of new novels- I like the ones where the hero travels all over the world."

"With several swordfights in every location, of course, and multiple attacks by pirates?"

"Oh yes, and long descriptions of the scenery right in the middle of an dashing escape over the rooftops. Yours was not very successful, was it?"

"I wouldn't characterize it as such," Courfeyrac replied, without really thinking. "I met you, after all."

Cosette looked up at him curiously. "I like to think you're always the most sincere when you are being the most outrageous. Am I wrong to think so?"

"Probably not."

She looked very pretty in the gray light, the raindrops sparkling against her hair. He was suddenly conscious of how horrible it would be to betray the innocent trust Cosette somehow had for him. It was an odd feeling; aside from perhaps Combeferre and Enjolras, few people ever really took him seriously. Cosette did, and clearly believed that he was a better class of being than he was. Instead of kissing her, as was his first impulse, Courfeyrac took out his handkerchief and brushed the raindrops from her hair, saying lightly, "Poor little lark, your feathers are pearled with rain."

Cosette frowned. "I remember being called a lark when I was very young."

"Oh? Your father never calls you that."

"No, I think it must have been my mother, or the horrible peasant lady who must have nursed me... I went to the convent so young I don't really remember anything that came before." She worried at her lower lip with a pearly incisor. "I vaguely remember long blonde hair and a very white smile- my mother, I think- and then a sort of nightmare of bugs and snakes. And a giantess of a woman with red hair, who was always angry at me and sending me into the cold and the dark. I never had the proper clothes for the snow, but I had to go out and fetch water from a stream far from the town. I think we were very poor before the convent. My father never talks about it, but I think... well, it seems reasonable to assume that he and my mother were very poor and they had me live away from the factory, or the great house where they worked. Then my mother died, and my uncle got my father his position at the convent. My uncle was extraordinarily good to us. He lived very simply and so saved up what seems to me to be an enormous amount of money which he left for my father. I suppose it must be a very, very small sum to you, but we live on it happily enough."

"Well with a dowry of gold and pearls, even if she did wear them instead of possess them, your mother must have been very charming. I wouldn't wonder that your father was ashamed that he couldn't give her a better life than the one they had. It would pain me to remember something like that."

Cosette nodded and stared out at the rain. "I did like it when you called me 'lark.' There was a great rush of images, but I remembered my mother for the first time in months and it made me... not precisely happy, but not precisely melancholy."

"A sublime mixture of opposites," said Courfeyrac, very loyal to his school of Romanticism even though he was wishing, very un-Romantically, for an umbrella. Even his sternest self-admonitions that only great bourgeois tyrants like Louis-Philippe habitually carried umbrellas did not serve to lift his dampened spirits.

After a moment, Cosette looked up at him and said, in a timid, trembling little voice, "You do not think worse of me for having been poor?"

"Some revolutionary I would be, if that was the case!" Courfeyrac shook his head. "It doesn't matter to me in the least, except that it has made you extraordinarily kind, and I have been the happy object of your kindness often enough. No, I think it is only be suffering of some kind that one gains compassion..." He paused. "You know, Yvain wasn't the eldest."

He saw the shock of this settle over Cosette, like the rainfall.

Courfeyrac still felt the pain of it and dealt with it the way he always dealt with things that mattered most to him: lightly, teasingly, as if it didn't feel like a shard of glass embedded in his soul, just a story to be tossed about for amusement. "I was seven when Napoleon escaped from Elba and marched up to Paris. He landed near Cannes. We grew up in Aix-en-Provence and... well, Chrétien was sixteen. He lived on tales of glory and adventure. There were no knights left in the world, only Napoleonic generals. It wasn't a terrible ride to Cannes, not for someone on fire for his ideals. They spurred him on and on- and onto the battlefield of Waterloo." Courfeyrac felt suddenly as Cosette had, at the mercy of images flashing through his mind, vivid and almost painful in their intensity. "I wasn't supposed to come, it was supposed to be just my mother, Laudine and Yvain- Yvain to escort her, Laudine to give her an excuse to be in Brussels. Ostensibly, they were looking at convents to educate Laudine. I hid in the luggage cart until we were too far to turn back. Maire was furious, but she was so- grief falls upon one as a physical blow. It had struck her so hard she didn't have the heart to force a separation from any of her children-and my mother is a remarkably strong woman. She was right, though. At seven, you aren't prepared for..."

They were silent for a minute or so, staring at the rain, falling like a quicksilver curtain around them.

"There aren't words for some things," said Cosette.

"No," said Courferyac. "I can only talk of strange- strange details. We got there so quickly the battlefield had not yet been cleaned. I thought it had snowed, but it was only the white paper cartridges, an inch thick over the mud and bodies."

Cosette's hand gently crept into his.

Courfeyrac squeezed it. "So. No family is untouched by socially unacceptable tragedies."

"Did you ever find your brother?"

"Yes, in a hospital. He was so very, very pale. His hair had been fading to brown, but it was a sort of dull copper from gunsmoke, with odd lumps- blood, I determined later- and his eyes were very green. He was missing a leg, but that hadn't helped him much. He died about two hours after we found him. I will never forget—Chrétien saw how confused I was, how hard I was trying to understand what was going on, why there were doctors splattered in blood, pulling white sheets over men I thought were merely sleeping, why my brother, so full of life, could barely lift his head. He took my hand in both of his." He demonstrated this, clasping his other hand around Cosette's. "And he said, 'Gauvain, don't be frightened. There are truths that are greater than ourselves, that can only be bought in blood. But I am content- I have lived and died for something greater than myself, which is more than many men can say. Find something you can live and die for, and you will not have any regrets at the end of your life. Your life will mean something, and your death will mean so much more.'" Courfeyrac stared at their clasped hands until he could speak lightly once again. "He talked a bit to my mother and other siblings. Yvain helped me to write down what Chrétien said so I wouldn't forget it. He told me to remember to be kind to everyone, as they were too old to understand what it meant to truly believe in something."

"Oh," said Cosette, staring at him with the sort of blue-eyed intensity Courfeyrac usually associated with Enjolras. It was the sort of look that pushed past the veils of good-humor and flippancy that Courfeyrac used to shield his true opinions. "I understand you."

It was said very simply, but with such conviction, Courfeyrac said, "I suppose you do, now. I don't know what sort of a person I would have been without that memory of intense suffering, or the unpleasant realization I had that if my brother hadn't had a 'de' before his last name, he would have been trodden into the mud, hidden by white paper cartridges instead of a winding sheet. I realized the world wasn't fair."

"I don't think there was ever a time when I didn't know that," said Cosette, a little slowly. "Before the convent... there was only a sense of such misery. I remember- what strange things I'm starting to remember! I never had a doll. I had a lead knife to play with and I would dress it up in rotting cabbage leaves while my nurse's children had a doll." She glanced down at the muddy hem of her dress. "I was on the muddy side."

Courfeyrac kissed Cosette's hand before releasing it. "It doesn't matter. Not to me. I shall still want to see more of you in Paris."

"That is such a relief to hear," Cosette said, with a trembling smile. "It always makes me smile to see you raising your hat as my father and I walk by."

He made sure to do so the first time he saw her again, in Paris. Courfeyrac was chatting with some friends and some workers in the Saint-Denis quarter, when he saw Cosette and her father passing through, with baskets full of early autumn produce.

"People just aren't that interesting," said Bahorel.

"Excuse you, I contain multitudes," replied Jehan.

Instead of adding some pithy quip of his own, Courfeyrac raised his hat and caught Cosette's eye. He meant to smile, but she did instead, with a quick, bright sweetness that filled Courfeyrac with a delightful confusion. It was what in French one calls a 'coup de foudre' or a lightening strike, where all is illuminated, all is electrified, and one sees with new clarity. Cosette lowered her gaze and walked on with her father, and into a tumble-down apartment building with her baskets of bread and vegetables. But she smiled still, in possession of a secret joy shared by one other. He stared at the doorway through which she had vanished, in a state that left him agitated, delighted, incredulous, amazed, and almost wild with happiness. It was a sublime mixture of feelings, leaving one with the sense of having staggered against the infinite.

'By God,' thought Courfeyrac, 'is there anything better than this? I think I am falling in love.'


	7. In which Cosette visits a fortune teller

To be in love in Paris is always pleasant, but to be love in Paris in the fall is a remarkable exercise in Romanticism. First comes the fruitfulness of the autumn, and in the midst of all such abundance, and the serene perfection of autumn 1831 in particular, there was a sense of comfort, or ease. One is unfettered by material want, surrounded by ephemeral, natural beauty, and, in the ending of toil, it is sweet to experience the very beginning of desire. Then, while all the world begins to die as it turns its back on the sun, as the clear blue of the summer starts to fade to gray, one is conscious of a delicate unfurling, a new creation that daily grows and blossoms into an iridescence that colors even the grayest of mornings. The world is full of secret possibilities.

It was also the most pleasant stage of falling in love-- the drawn-out expectation of pleasure, the careful sounding of boundaries, the concentration of one’s being in a delightful present-- and Cosette was happier than she had ever been before. She did not have the experience of love to call it as such, but Courfeyrac recognized it for what it was, and enjoyed it immensely. It was the stage of relationships he liked best, the slow discovery of another person’s inner life, and the quiet wonder of feeling that there was someone in the world who  _knew_ you and somehow still  _liked_  you. Theirs was a very careful sounding of boundaries. They did not meet more often than before, but they were very aware of each other each time they did, and they talked for longer and danced together more frequently. It was a delicate dance, where Courfeyrac was happy to let Cosette take the lead. He took care to never make her uncomfortable with his attentions, but became gradually more obvious in his admiration.

Cosette, in her turn, was stepping into new territory. She was not timid by nature, but her childhood had engendered in her a certain caution, a certain fear of asking questions, and though she fearlessly accepted his offers to dance, or stopped to talk with him whenever they passed each other in the street, she did not display her feelings as he did. Cosette was dawningly aware of Courfeyrac’s affection, but had yet to decide what to make of it. Courfeyrac did not press her, and she was able to study this odd, happy change, puzzle over it, and carefully test it, to determine what it was, at her leisure. In this, Courfeyrac was perfectly happy-- he had her attention, he had her goodwill, and, above all, he had her good opinion. Whether or not she wished to give him more was entirely up to her, and so Courfeyrac could enjoy the teased out mystery.   

“Is there anything better than falling in love?” Courfeyrac asked Marius, as they were walking out of a lecture. Marius, eager to go back to sulking at the Gorbeau, looked puzzled.

“You are of course, wondering how I have gone from the study of Roman law to love--”

“Not really,” said Marius, eager to be gone.

“You must be frustrated in your love,” said Courfeyrac, who instinctively guessed at everything that Marius instinctively did not say.  Marius remained true to his own character and said nothing. Courfeyrac, though often sensitive to the moods of others, was too happy to entirely constrain himself. “Come, let us go down to the Musain and you can tell me all about her-- perhaps I have seen her, or, if not, Joly and Bossuet are sure to be there and they spend more time wandering about parks, not doing their coursework, than I do.”

Marius merely buttoned his coat up to his chin, so that no one could see the state of his linens.

“Marius, I just offered you a splendid opening so that we could discuss our feelings, compare our commonplace books of sentimental phrases and swap tips on how best to woo a lady, or, at the very least, try to locate your girl from the Luxembourg, but there you are, already heading back to your hovel?”

“Yes.”

“Oh hold there,” said Courfeyrac, pulling Marius back. “Watch out-- this fellow seems to have wandered out of his den. Never cross paths with someone of his aspect.”

The fellow in question was someone Courfeyrac recognized by description more than actual experience; several of his friends who lived in the poorer neighborhoods had swapped unhappy stories of having their rent stolen by this fellow.

“Why, who is he?”

“Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, a very dangerous nocturnal roamer. Why he is in the Latin Quater, I could not say-- but I can say several things about how divinely Mademoiselle Fauchelevent waltzes--”

But Marius was gone already, clutching a handkerchief that Courfeyrac had given up trying to see. All that one could determine about Marius’s love was that her name started with a ‘U’, which was not much to go on. But then again, thought Courfeyrac, one had to be respectful of lovers, particularly sensitive ones like Marius. Not everyone had been raised to cherish affairs of the heart as he had been, and not everyone was so lucky in love. True, it wasn’t yet certain that Cosette was falling in love with him the way he was falling in love with her, but she seemed to like him, and that uncertainty was the edge that made one feel so alive. It did annoy him not to be able to talk about Cosette, which was now his chief pleasure outside of being with her, so he went to the Musain and spent the afternoon talking about Cosette to Joly, who, in turn, talked to him about Musichetta.

Musichetta had made some very sound economic business decisions and had capitalized on the strain of Romanticism sweeping through the Latin Quarter. She and her friend Rosalie, who was Bahorel’s off-again, on-again mistress, had started up a successful atelier for anyone who wished to dress from any era but the current one. And, as fall turned to winter, Musichetta got the brilliant idea of taking out her deck of Marsailles Tarot cards and setting up a booth in a frost fair to a) earn a bit extra from her cards and b) show off the perfection of her tailoring when it came to gypsy costumes.

Cosette and Blanchefleur stumbled across Musichetta’s booth close to Christmas, under the negligent eye of Brocéliande’s governess, who was too busy watching Brocéliande knock over cauldrons of  _vin chaud_ to keep a close eye on the other two girls. Cosette and Blanchefleur feasted upon roast almonds and marzipan before spotting a gypsy in a neatly constructed booth with a wooden awning for any pedestrian wishing to hide from the sleet. The gypsy turned out instead to be one of the dark beauties of Arles or Marseilles, with her olive skin and curly black hair. She sat behind her booth embroidering a red velvet skirt in gold with a  _grisette_ whose blonde hair rats were just a shade too light to match with the rest of her hair.

“Shall we get our fortunes told?” asked Blanchefleur, eagerly. “It is just like the gypsies in  _Notre Dame de Paris._ I am sure that is also why they set up shop on the part of the fair grounds that commands the best view of Notre Dame.” Blanchefleur turned to look at the cathedral, completely covered in scaffolding. “Well, it would be so much more Gothic if it was left to fall to pieces, but I heard that they were going to add enormous amount of gargoyles, so I am perfectly satisfied.”

Cosette hesitantly went up to the booth. “Pardon me Mademoiselle....”

The dark-haired woman cast a spangled veil over her head and pushed away her embroidery. “Ah, my lady, do you wish me to peer through the mists to see your future? Perhaps to see if there is a tall, dark man, as pale as Lord Ruthven with soulful black eyes--”

“I prefer green eyes and lighter hair, so no,” said Cosette, without really thinking. Blanchefleur was absorbed in a close examination of the tarot cards spread across the front of the booth. Cosette colored slightly, but mustered her courage and asked, “Could you-- that is, do you think it at all possible to look into a person’s past?”

The fortune teller blinked and even Blanchefleur looked up from the cards.

“Well,” said the blonde, bundling up the velvet skirt.  “We’ve been setting up shop since Esmeralda first burst onto the literary scene and this is the first we’ve heard about putting together someone’s past, ain’t it, Musichetta?”

“I usually do a three card spread, past, present and future,” said Musichetta, dropping her mystic airs. “I’ve never done  _just_ someone’s past. Usually people know that themselves.”

“I don’t really remember my past,” said Cosette, haltingly. “Not-- not any time before I was seven and sent to the convent. I have only images, not any... not any clear recollections. Do you think you could see anything about it in your Tarot cards?”

Musichetta dubiously gathered up the cards and shuffled them together, much to Blanchefleur’s disappointment. “Worth a try... Ask the cards an open-ended question about your past. Though I should warn you, my lady, that we often forget things that are too painful to remember.”

Blanchefleur looked curiously at Cosette. “You mean to say that you don’t remember anything at all before the convent?”

“Very little-- perhaps-- I wonder if perhaps... it is very silly, but we are at a fortune-teller’s in front of Notre Dame, so I suppose it’s a reasonable setting.” Cosette pulled off her glove, smoothed it out and then pulled it back on, simply to have something to do with her hands. “Do you think you could see anything about my mother? All I know is that she died before the convent, and my father weeps whenever I ask about her- but I so wish to remember something about her.”

Musichetta looked dubious. “I’ll do my best with my three card spread. Give Rosalie here five francs and I’ll do you both.”

Cosette dug a five franc coin out of her purse and slid it to the blonde, who examined it carefully. “With many thanks my lady, may your fortune bring happiness to your Réveillon _._ ”

“You don’t have to do that, Cosette!” exclaimed Blanchefleur.

“Christmas present,” replied Cosette. “Oh please don’t protest, as you said, it’s a perfectly Romantic and almost Gothic thing to do under the shadow of Notre Dame--”

“If you insist,” Blanchefleur interrupted eagerly.

Musichetta had such pretty, laughing eyes; Cosette felt reassured at her wink. “That’s the idea. Take the deck, Mademoiselle....”

“Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac,” said Blanchefleur, hesitantly taking the pack.

Musichetta’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Courfeyrac?” She took in Blanchefleur’s chestnut hair and green eyes. “Well, Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac, think of an open-ended question and shuffle the deck. Make it as specific as possible-- be sure it is worded as precisely as it can be, and  _concentrate._ ”

Blanchefleur frowned as she shuffled the deck, a little clumsily since her leather gloves, though fashionable, did not much keep out the cold.

“Pull three cards when you’re ready and ask your question aloud.”

“Will I ever get to travel?” Blanchefleur asked, rather wistfully.

Musichetta spread out the cards Blanchefleur had selected and flipped over the first one. “The High Priestess. I take it you were in a convent for many years?”

“Yes, I was locked up-- never got to go anywhere at all.”

“The High Priestess also challenges you to look deeper. It represents a time of waiting, yes, but it also means you may not have to act to achieve your goals-- if you wait, as you have waited, you will get to travel out of Paris.”

Musichetta turned over the next card. “In your present is the devil-- are you feeling cynical, or perhaps a little trapped? The devil usually implies bondage of some kind, or at the very least, that you feel you cannot escape an unhappy situation. Or, often, that you feel literally be-deviled.”

“A bit,” acknowledged Blanchefleur. “I think anyone would be, with my immediate family  _and_ all my aunts descending upon my sister’s house for Réveillon _._ ”

“Are they the sort that would eat their own young in the wild?” asked Musichetta, her voice trembling with the effort not to laugh. “I envision passive-aggressive wars the equal of Waterloo, leaving the drawing room strewn with exhausted young ladies unable to hold up under such a barrage of questioning.”

“That’s exactly what my brother Gauvain says about them! God Lord, you must be gifted with some superhuman powers.”

“Fear not,” said Musichetta, flipping over the last card. “In your future, we have the Fool.”

Blanchefleur deflated. “The fool? I’m supposed to rejoice in the fool?”

“Yes, for, though he was a part of medieval courts, he was not expected to follow the same rules.” This cheered Blanchefleur at once. Musichetta continued, “The Fool can signal a new beginning or change of direction - one that will guide you onto a path of adventure. He also reminds you to keep your faith that life can be good. I daresay you shall find yourself leaving Paris for more exciting climes in the new year.”

Rosalie nodded. “Lovely. Now you, Mademoiselle....”

“Fauchelevent,” said Cosette, taking the deck of cards. Musichetta exchanged another speaking look with Rosalie, but took back the rest of the deck with a neutral expression.

Musichetta flipped over the first card Cosette had picked, revealing ‘The Emperor.’ “Ah ha. Let me ask, was your question about some great upheaval in your life?”

Cosette nodded. She had not asked her question aloud as neither her childhood nor her adolesence had given her any encouragement to ever question any source of authority. Presently, she saw that she would be required to do so. "Yes-- I recall being left with a nurse in the countryside. I wanted to know why--”

Rosalie, looking heavenward, interrupted, “Because that’s what one always does with children when one works in a city?”

“Why I never saw my mother again,” finished Cosette, a little flustered.

Musichetta glared at her companion. “Rosalie! Come now, wouldn’t you pay anything to know why your mother left you? I am sorry, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. Let us return to the cards. This card can have several meanings. There is the obvious, that perhaps there was some upheaval around the fall of the Empire-- 1815 or 1816 or even 1817 perhaps-- that caused your mother to leave you. It can also represent a father figure.”

“So my father is the reason my mother never saw me again?”

“These are only signposts,” said Musichetta, tapping ‘The Emperor’ on the forehead. “You have to walk towards them, you have to find the way.”

She turned over the next card. “Now, this is your present, the Three of Swords. This usually stands for a painful truth that has been coming for a long time. In the past, did you feel lost? Separated, obviously, but spurned or rejected?”

Cosette stared wide-eyed at the cards. It was suddenly painful to have her heart on display, dissected by an unknown woman with laughing eyes. But when Cosette looked up, Musichetta’s gaze was kind. “Poor lady, your heart’s been broken, but as my mother always said to me, when your heart breaks, it breaks open.”

“Someone recently told me that only through great suffering one learns great kindness,” said Cosette.

“And you certainly are one of the kindest people I know,” said Blanchefleur, stoutly.

Musichetta flipped over the last card. “And through that suffering you have gained something. Here’s your future-- the Lovers.”

Cosette turned pink.

“The Lovers!” exclaimed Blanchefleur, with a giggle. “I can see it all now. Cosette, you told me your father got you a new dress for our Christmas party. You shall look so beautiful some gentleman will fall in love with you at once and sweep you off to Tuscany, where he is a count, and then you shall invite me on a tour of Italy with you, thereby fulfilling all of Madame Musichetta’s predictions!”

“It’s a card symbolizing deep love,” said Musichetta. “Perhaps there is a handsome lover with green eyes in your future, but your question is about your mother. The Lovers represents a relationship based on deep love.”

Cosette’s vision blurred slightly.

“It’s clear that your mother loved you very much, and that the separation was unintentional. She probably died wishing to see you again-- and certainly would have come to you, if she could.”

“My mother loved me,” Cosette repeated to herself, very softly. It seemed to assuage an old, forgotten fear, the lingering terror of an unhappy child.

Musichetta smiled. “She did. And I think I can also see another love in your future.” She pulled out the Knight of Wands. “This was sticking out of the deck. I foresee a dose of passion and daring, and a handsome young man with a wicked smile and an overabundance of charm.”

Cosette’s tears seemed to have converted instantly to blushes.

Blanchefleur looked curiously at her friend and then handed Rosalie a handful of sous. “Thank you. Here’s a tip.”

“Thank  _you,_ ” said Rosalie, counting out the tip. “And remember the atelier of Poquelin and Henriot in the Latin Quarter, for any of your fancy dress needs. We do regular gowns, too, but we specialize in masquerade costumes.”

“Thanks-- we’ll remember you for Mardi Gras,” said Blanchefleur. “Well, what next, Cosette?”

“I know,” said Cosette. “Let’s go buy gingerbread to give to the gamins after midnight mass.”

“Why is it you are so focused on charity?” asked Blanchefleur, to whom charity had always been presented as a hobby.

“I suppose....” Cosette paused. “There are-- there are many times in my life where I have felt... a lack. When I suppose I am not satisfied with all that I have... but then Papa and I go out and see what it really means to want, and I see that I have the means and the time to relieve some of those wants. And then I feel as rich as any sultana, for I never have to worry about when I shall next eat, or where I shall sleep, or if my clothes will last the winter, or what will become of my family, or if I shall have enough work. In fact, I realize I am much richer than I could ever have imagined, for I have a father who loves me, a comfortable home, a wardrobe appropriate for even the nicer quarters of Paris, a chance to waltz every few weeks or so, which I like better than almost any other activity, and--” linking arms with Blanchefleur “--a very good friend. Indeed, I think most people spend all their lives looking for one great friend and I have done so in less than twenty years.”

Blanchefleur was enormously pleased at the compliment. “Oh I am glad Gauvain ran into you.”

Cosette was still meditating on charity and said, “You know, my father once told me that is often very much easier to focus on what one does not have, so one must focus on what others do not have before one realizes all of one’s own blessings.”

Blanchefleur held out a gloved hand. “The sleet is easing up-- let’s go.”

They dashed across the courtyard, laughing.

Sometime later, Courfeyrac, ambling about the fair, caught the scent of Hungary water. He was transported back instantly to Cosette’s bedroom on the Rue de L’Homme Armé. He looked around for her but instead saw Musichetta, attired as a gypsy, dabbing Joly’s head with Hungary water. Joly was collapsed over the counter, propping his chin in his hands, looking very sorry for himself.

“Hallo, Jolllly, Musichetta,” said Courfeyrac, doffing his hat. “I am glad to get out of this sleet.”

“Hallo there,” said Musichetta, smiling. “You missed Rosalie, and Joly’s spectacular fall.”

“I am sure I have broken my skull,” moaned Joly.

Courfeyrac doffed his hat. “Alas, poor Jolllly! Do you mean to tell me that your ‘ls’” or ‘ailes,’ ‘wings’ “--could not save you?”

“Bossuet and I appear to have switched luck today.”

“Hold still,” Musichetta said, affectionately. “Just a bump, darling--”

“--or a fractured cranium.” Joly sighed miserably. “Keep looking Musichetta, I am sure at the very least I have an abrasion with gravel embedded in the first layer of my epidermis.”

Courfeyrac brushed the wet off of his frock coat. “Musichetta, my heart thrills to see you in such picturesque costume. Are you advertising for Mardi Gras already?”

“No, telling fortunes,” said Musichetta. She paused in her ministrations and pressed the deck of Tarot cards to her forehead. “And I see, in your future, a very pretty young girl with enormous blue eyes, a mass of brown curls threaded with gold, and a very shy smile. She answers to the name Cosette Fauchelevent, is fond of waltzes and blushes at allusions to gentlemen with green eyes and wicked smiles.”

Courfeyrac was flabbergasted. “The devil? I always thought your fortunes were a work of fiction.”

“Merely astute observation.” Musichetta  grinned.

“It’s not like you haven’t been going on about this girl since August,” Joly pointed out, helpfully. “You’re worse than I was when Musichetta wouldn’t have me.”

“Well yes, but Mademoiselle Fauchelevent was brought up in a convent and lives in a very retired way with a very protective father. How did you see her, Musichetta?”

“I told the fortune of your sister, Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac, who wished to travel, and then the sadder fortune of her friend, Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, who only wished to know something about her mother. Poor girl, my heart bled for her.”

“Could you see anything?” asked Joly.

“Only that her mother loved her and didn’t wish for their separation-- it nearly broke my heart when she stared at ‘The Lovers’ card, as if she never really believed her mother loved her.”

“This is all going straight to  _your_  heart, isn’t it, Courfeyrac?” asked Joly, in some amusement.

“Of course it is, the poor little lark! I liked Mademoiselle Fauchelevent a great deal already, this only makes me long for her happiness even more.”

“You have liked many a stupider person,” observed Musichetta. “I give you my leave to like her, she does seem like a sweet little thing. She went to go buy gingerbread to give out to the gamins after midnight mass.”

“Quite a touch above your usual sort of affair, isn’t it?” asked Joly, quite amazed.

“What, so you are the only person in our group of friends to conceive a lasting passion for someone better than yourself?”

“Thank you,” said Musichetta, highly gratified.

“It often seemed like it,” said Joly, “but I am willing to admit I’m wrong if you will help me close up shop for Musichetta.”

“Gladly,” said Courfeyrac.

The rest of the day passed just as pleasantly. Courfeyrac rarely attended mass, but enjoyed doing so on Christmas Eve, where everyone from every social class felt some nationalistic obligation to go to cram themselves into a church. It was a bit like attending a public masquerade, only one could see everyone’s expressions.

Blanchefleur, in Courfeyrac’s opinion, had added to the masquerade feel by selecting a gown that looked like it was made of tartan, in an homage to Sir Walter Scott. Laudine had also stuck an improbable number of things into her topknot including a small fan with a painted scene of ice-skaters, several golden pins, a red ribbon, and a sprig of holly.  

Cosette, however, was very charmingly and simply dressed in a printed gown with a green velvet sash, and with a green velvet ribbon wound through her hair. She kept glancing at Courfeyrac whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, which was fine, because Courfeyrac was, rather sophomorically, doing the exact same thing. He was paying much more attention to Cosette than the sermon, and so overheard her asking, “Papa, did my mother love me?”

“Of course she did,” whispered her father. “Why do you ask, Cosette? Surely you knew how much she loved you.”

“All I remember is that she left me with a frightful nurse in the countryside and I never saw her again. I got so used to thinking that she didn’t want me--”

“Your mother gave her life to give you a better one,” her father interrupted, his voice rough. Poor man, were there tears in his eyes? Courfeyrac snuck a glance, but then had to kneel with everyone else as they were led in prayer. “Her last request from me was to go and fetch you to her deathbed. I was too late, but know that her last thoughts were for you.”

Cosette’s head was bowed in prayer, but Courfeyrac heard her soft, “thank you, papa,” and then, a little later, as if to herself, a quiet exaltation of, “The fortune teller was right! My mother loved me!” She was thereafter alight with joy for the rest of the evening. Courfeyrac’s heart went out to her. ‘Poor little lark!’ he thought to himself, as he helped distribute the gingerbread after mass. ‘How unfairly you’ve suffered. I wish there was something I could do to make every day of your life happy from here until eternity.’

Laudine displayed her usual taste for elegant abundance and served oysters on a bed of ice with lemon and vinagrette as soon as everyone arrived. They all worked their way through a series of canapes until the first footman, with smug satisfaction at his role, brought out the first of thirteen courses, an enormous stuffed goose. Courfeyrac had always grown up with thirteen desserts, one each for Jesus and his twelve apostles, but Laudine was determined to display her magnificence before all their relatives, and this had translated into thirteen courses, with, of course, a new type of wine for each one.

They were thus a very merry company. Aunt Mathilde, who usually cared for no one’s pleasure but her own, loudly called for music and dancing for the young people.

Blanchefleur, who was justifiably proud of her skills on the pianoforte, was pressed to play and won applause for her Beethoven sonatas by thereafter playing waltzes. Courfeyrac looked immediately for Cosette to be his first partner.

“Are you having a good Christmas?” asked Courfeyrac, spotting her on a divan with her father.

“Oh, a marvelous one!” gushed Cosette, made even more exuberant from the three glasses of wine she had drunk under her father’s careful eye. “I hope it is not too bold of me to say, but I hope you have come to ask me to waltz.”

“Of course I have!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “I think I can with some certainty assure you that you are my favorite waltzing partner, as you have never once pointed out to me any failures in my leadership of the dance and are, in fact, quite complimentary of my mediocre abilities. I feel quite accomplished when you deign to be my partner, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. I can hardly deny myself the great treat of dancing with you, when I have not denied myself anything else I wanted all day. If, sir,” he added, turning to Monsieur Fauchelevent, “you have no objections.”

“I like to see you happy, Cosette,” her father said, gently.

“Oh I am! Only to think! My mother really did love me!” Cosette took Courfeyrac’s extended hand and neatly twirled herself into position. “I could dance all night! I never knew how much that uncertainty weighed on me until it had gone.” She told him all about Musichetta’s miraculous powers of observation, if not clairvoyance, as they spun about with the other couples. They only exception was Musichetta’s teasing mention of a lover with green eyes and a wicked smile. Cosette mentioned only that ‘The Lovers’ did not represent exactly what it seemed to, but-- and there she had to spin and, in the next movements of the dance, entirely forgot the rest of her sentence.

It was a fun rather than an elegant set, as many dancers were discovering that an overabundance of wine rather hinders than help one successfully keep upright while spinning. Courfeyrac had enough to make him merry, though not enough to dull his reflexes, and he was often improvising steps to keep them from running into another couple, or being forced out of the cleared area for dancing and into the furniture. One such spin, to keep out of the way of Brocéliande’s attempt to turn the waltz into a gallop, caused them to spin out of the drawingroom into the entrance hall. Courfeyrac halted their progress under what seemed to him, a sprig of mistletoe placed there by Providence rather than a maid in love with the butler.

“Oh thank you,” said Cosette, steadying herself against the wall. “Your sister certainly has a great deal of spirit, does she not? Well, no matter, I should like everyone to be as happy as I am now, and I am glad to see that Brocéliande is enjoying herself. Are you?”

“Certainly,” Courfeyrac said, trying and failing not to look at the mistletoe.

“It that...?”

“There are certain conventions with mistletoe,” said Courfeyrac, with a wicked smile.

Cosette blushed.

“Though,” he hastened to add, lest she feel uncomfortable, “I am never one much to hold with meaningless convention.”

Cosette hesitated. She had lived all her life according to rules drilled into her by constant repetition and the threat of disproportionate punishment. Adult life was trickier, since most of the rules went unspoken, but tacitly understood. She had almost no guide in this world of painted smiles and whispered critiques, though Blanchefleur was helpful enough. Blanchefleur would often stare at Cosette in mild disbelief, but then she would blame the convent and then explain to Cosette how the fashionable world really worked.  This was not something she could ask Blanchefleur about and, at any rate, her childhood and her education had both installed in her a lasting fear of asking questions, for they would almost certainly lead to punishment.

But then again, she had been filled with such hope when Musichetta had mentioned a handsome, green-eyed young man with a wicked smile, and she felt so alive each time she saw Courfeyrac, or danced with him. And gone was the old, bone-deep fear, so deep it could never be properly articulated, that perhaps, because her mother did not love her, she was unworthy of being loved. Oh, how wonderful it was to be loved—and thus the joy filling her heart won out against years of instilled fear and caution.

She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Merry Christmas, Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac was extremely surprised, but very well pleased. She offered him her blushing cheek in return. Courfeyrac kissed it. “Merry Christmas, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.”


	8. In which M. Fauchlevent gets burned

“I meant to speak to you before,” said the baron, calling Gauvain into his study, some time after Christmas, “but all of September, it seemed you were aiding in various riots.”

“Only until 17 September,” objected Courfeyrac. “I was busier in June.”

“Yes, until Yvain insisted you come down to Blois,” said the baron. “And I am glad he did. My friends in the Ministry warned me that Saint-Denis would be very harshly put down, to show that Louis-Philippe is, after all, a savvy monarch.”

Courfeyrac snorted and tried to turn this into a badly faked sneeze.

The baron merely raised a silvering eyebrow. “What were the riots about this time?”

“Textile workers--”

The baron held up a hand. “The poor again. I think you were born in the wrong time, Gauvain. You ought to have lived through the Revolution. You would have gotten on very well with Saint-Just and probably would have ended up a representative-on-mission.”

Courfeyrac’s happy sigh provoked a smile from the baron.

“Yes well-- times are what they are, and I will freely admit to you that you are my favorite of my in-laws, aside from your august parents, because you never seem to require anything of me.”

“I deeply feel the weight of such a compliment,” said Courfeyrac.

“--and so, I feel no little awkwardness in a conversation so little likely to please you.” The baron poured himself a fifth of bourbon and offered it to Courfeyrac. “Would you like to try this? Our ambassador to the United States of America sent me this-- I believe it is a whiskey from Kentucky. Bourbon, I think it is called.”

“I regret to say that I am morally opposed to Bourbons in any form.”

The baron took a moment to decipher this pun. “Let us pretend you did not so abuse the French language as to make that joke. I must first address your career-- now sometime next fall, our ambassador to England will be in need of a personal secretary, as said secretary will likely inherit his father’s estate in Lyon sometime this summer. The father is consumptive, I believe, and not likely to live past September, according to most reports. Said secretary and will quit his post and come home. You will have passed the bar in June-- or so one hopes-- and your sister has been campaigning to have you appointed to the position as our ambassador’s personal secretary as soon as it is vacated. Is this something that would please you?”

“I have no idea why she would think that,” said Courfeyrac. “I hate this government.”

“It is better than the last,” said the baron, who had profited considerably. “Despite the stories you like to tell about yourself, it has not gone unnoticed by your sister and myself that one, you do speak English, if only to alarm everyone with Lord Byron untranslated, two, you keep your business affairs in better order than one would believe, three, you are capable of getting along with anyone, of any social class or nationality, and four, you have an excellent style for correspondence. You could go into the law, and fight unprofitably for the rights of the widow or the orphan to an unprofitable patch of dirt, _or_ you could go abroad, work your way up the service and then be in place to actually implement the laws. Think also that you will be in _England,_ a land that Louis-Philippe loves, and a land--”

“That still has a constitutional _monarchy_.”

“Yeeeees... so you may better see, from an external perspective, how one passes laws. This government is not perfect, no, but one can work with it.”

Courfeyrac remained skeptical.

“Well, we shall return to the subject after you pass the bar,” said the baron. “Let us leave it for the time being, though I would like to remind you that you would make an excellent politician, if you learned to compromise on your ideals.”

“I don’t even know where to start on that,” said Courfeyrac.

The baron waved this away. “Never mind, to more pleasant subjects! A word in your ear about Mademoiselle Fauchelevent-- you are a bit of a Saint-Simonian, so there is no need to remind you of this, but I did promise your sister... this is not some Latin Quarter love affair. If society knows that Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s personal charms were such that they captured the affections of the younger Monsieur de Courfeyrac, so much the better for her, since she is not rich. She may make a creditable match, as a result of this new social capital, and you can always bow out since it is known you are a second son of a politically savvy family and cannot marry as you will. But, however unfair you feel this circumstance is, recall that society is _disproportionately unfair to women._ ”

This was said in a tone of such gravity that Gauvain sat up (he usually lounged in seats, and in such a way as to imply that it was physically impossible to get back up), and said, “Sir, if that’s my sister’s idea of my character...!”

“It is not mine,” the baron replied, taking a sip of his bourbon. “But you know better than I the deficits of women’s education. I am often shocked at how cruel your sister can be to others of her sex, often unknowingly so. But, I will say this in Laudine’s favor-- she is always very honest with me. I am lucky to have secured her hand.” The bourbon was making him feel a little happier than was his wont, and the baron said, a little dreamily, “Why, I recall when we were first engaged I imagined I would be much too old for her, but she told me she had always fancied men of experience, and indeed, her willingness to learn did prove the veracity of her claims--”

“My dear Maurice, I never needed to know that,” interrupted Gauvain, looking harassed.

The baron recalled that the amiable young dandy in whom he had been confiding was actually his wife’s younger brother. “Ah ha. Well. To return to the point. Tread with caution. The freedoms permissible with a grisette of the Latin Quarter are _verboten_ in a convent-educated young lady of the Faubourg Saint Germain.”

“I should think I was better brought up than that,” protested Gauvain. “The whims of men can be devastating to the women they desire. I helped my friend Combeferre write a pamphlet on such a subject. No sir, no need to look at me like that, I am not evading the subject, merely trying to assure you that even if Mademoiselle Fauchelevent would care for me enough to deny me nothing, I would never ask.”

The baron observed Gauvain over the rim of his glass. “Hm.” He swallowed and put down the empty glass. “I see now, Gauvain, that you have the heart of a paladin instead of a _procurer du roi_. Do think about the position your sister wishes you to take, gallant adventures abroad are the requisite narrative for knights.”

Cosette’s conversation about her newfound romance was a very brief one, with Blanchefleur.

“I think Gauvain likes you,” observed Blanchefleur, one afternoon, as they sprawled by the fire, in the baron’s library.

Cosette blushed. “That’s good to hear-- I like him too.”

Blanchefleur considered this. “I think overall I am happy to hear that. If you did marry, I would have a sister I actually liked and then I could always go live with you and Gauvain and we could still have marvelous adventures abroad. In fact, I think Gauvain would be rather a boon, since he can do the heavy lifting and engage in all the requisite swordfights.”

“I think we are too young for all that,” said Cosette.

“Oh good,” said Blanchefleur, happily. “I wouldn’t mind your being married, but everything is so comfortable the way it is now, I am loathe to see it change.”

And mostly, life did not much change. Courfeyrac and Cosette both acknowledged that they liked each other, privately, and everyone else acknowledged it as well. They only had to acknowledge it to each other, which is always the most difficult part of any relationship, for one risks some uneveness in loving, some fear that one loves more than one is loved, the ruin of a happiness as delicate as glass with rough handling. It wasn’t until Candlemass that Courfeyrac and Cosette had their own conversation.

Courfeyrac was at a store in the immense bazar known as the Temple, trying to track down an overcoat Marius had pawned there, when he saw Cosette and her father sorting through wool stockings several feet away. Cosette looked particularly charming in her purple velvet bonnet and her silk pelisse, vibrant against the falling snow outside and the neat piles of gray and black wool stockings. He raised his hat. Cosette saw the movement, smiled and called out, “Oh, Monsieur Courfeyrac! I was wishing for you!”

“I am glad to fulfill any wish of yours,” said Courfeyrac, “though you could certainly wish for better. Monsieur Fauchlevent, good day.”

“Good day,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, who appeared to be in a charitable mood.

“Could you tell Blanchefleur I cannot come see her this afternoon?” asked Cosette, accepting several brown paper parcels from the owner of the store. “Papa and I were at church when a girl came in-- poor thing! I was so shocked to see her, she only had men’s shoes and a tattered mantle, and she gave Papa a letter asking for help. Her hands were all red with cold, and the letter said she had an ill mother and another sister who were as badly off as she was. I suppose I oughtn’t to look for shoes for her yet?”

Her father smiled. “That is a kind idea, my child, but it was impossible to tell what size of boot she requires.”

“My good wool stockings can fit anyone,” interjected the store owner. “And Mademoiselle, might I suggest a wool shawl, if the young beggar has only a tattered coat? My good young lady, you will see that these coats are better than new, for all the stiffness has been worn out of them and they have been tried successfully against the elements. Or perhaps a blanket?”

Cosette glanced up at her father, who nodded.

“Oh, yes, then, a blanket, the warmer, the better.” Cosette gave the package of stockings to her father and then briefly grasped Courfeyrac’s hand. “And please do let Blanchefleur know how sorry I am not to be there, but I cannot _bear_ to think of that poor girl running about without stockings while it is snowing. I remember--” She saw her father’s worried expression, and Cosette merely squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand to remind him of their conversation in the summer. “Well! I will see her sometime this week.”

Courfeyrac bowed over Cosette’s hand. “Of course. Can I help you at all?”

Cosette smiled, pleased with him. “You are so very kind to offer, but Papa and I cannot leave the, er... Fabantou? Yes, the Fabantou family to shiver themselves to death. We must be off very soon. Thank you for talking to Blanchefleur!”

Courfeyrac rather wished to prolong the interview, but, his search for Marius’s overcoat being unsuccessful, he left the store. He managed to find one that was close enough to Marius’s coat, or, at least, close enough for Marius, who had no attention for those sorts of details. The coat acquired, Courfeyrac lingered in the Temple for longer than was strictly necessary. His hopes were disappointed; the Fauchelevents hailed a fiacre very soon after leaving the store, and Courfeyrac was left to go call upon his sister.

Blanchefleur was the only one at home, as the baron and baroness had gone to the baron's estate in the Loire the better to be snootily gracious at their tenants, and Brocéliande and her governess were out ice-skating. Or rather, the governess was ice-skating, and Brocéliande was accidentally-on-purpose pushing over other children her age (Brocéliande’s adolescence was an unfortunate time for everyone who experienced it). Courfeyrac therefore had a short and pleasant visit with Blanchefleur, spent mostly discussing new books and new music. Wishing for more company, he took the omnibus to the Latin Quarter instead of to the Marais, where he lived, and thus happened to be on the Rue Mouffetard at about three-o-clock, where he fell into company with Bossuet. The snow had redoubled in violence, and filled the air.

“Is that you, old eagle of Meaux?” asked Courfeyrac. “I can barely see you!”

"One would say, to see all these snowflakes fall, that there was a plague of white butterflies in heaven." Bossuet shook his head and then paused, frowning. “Hold, is that Marius?”

Courfeyrac glanced over at Marius, dressed, for once, in his decent coat, walking very intently down the street. “Yes it is, but let’s leave him to his solitary course.”

"Why?"

"He is busy."

"With what?"

"Don't you see his air?"

"What air?"

"He has the air of a man who is following someone."

"That's true," said Bossuet.

"Just see the eyes he is making!" said Courfeyrac.

"But who the deuce is he following?"

"Some fine, flowery bonneted wench! He's in love. You do recall the extensive conversations we have had on the subject of his missing Mademoiselle U?"

"But," observed Bossuet, "I don't see any wench nor any flowery bonnet in the street. There's not a woman round."

Courfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed:--

"He's following a man!"

A man, in fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard could be distinguished, although they only saw his back, was walking along about twenty paces in advance of Marius.

This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly new and too large for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers all hanging in rags and black with mud.

Bossuet burst out laughing. "Who is that man?"

"He?" retorted Courfeyrac, "he's a poet. Poets are very fond of wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and the overcoats of peers of France."

"Let's see where Marius will go," said Bossuet; "let's see where the man is going, let's follow them, hey?"

"Bossuet!" exclaimed Courfeyrac, "eagle of Meaux! You are a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following another man, indeed!"

They retraced their steps. If they had not, it perhaps would have explained why at nine-o-clock that evening Marius appeared on Courfeyrac’s doorstep, pale, shaken, his hair tumbled about his forehead, stammering out, “I have come to sleep with you.”

Courfeyrac blinked and after a moment realized that Marius had meant actually, physically sleeping on the floor. Courfeyrac pulled one of the mattresses off the bed, and said, “There.”

Then, thinking he might do Marius a good turn, Courfeyrac added, “And you left your overcoat here the other day.”

Marius was too distressed to correct him. Marius instead collapsed onto the mattress and looked blankly at the ceiling.

Courfeyrac hesitated before returning to his account books. He balanced his finances for the quarter, consulted his purse and said, “Marius, are you in some distress for your rent?”

“No,” said Marius, bleakly. Courfeyrac looked over him and decided not to question him further. The next morning brought no clarity; Marius got up, put on his new overcoat and went back to the Gorbeau tenement to collect his things.

While he was out, a footman came to the door.

“I am extraordinarily popular,” said Courfeyrac, taking the note on scented paper.

 _‘Hello Gauvain,’_ it read, ‘ _Cosette came over this morning in tears, as her father is missing after he went to help some poor family near La Saltpeterie. I am very glad Cosette did not go with him, but that neighborhood being what it is, I am very afraid some evil has fallen upon Monsieur Fauchlevent. I haven’t said anything to Cosette, but you go everywhere in Paris, can you help look for her father? Laudine and the baron are still on their restorative lease in the Loire and I did not know what else to do. -Blanchefleur.’_

Courfeyrac scrambled for a pencil and for his coat and hat. On the back of the note, he scribbled, ‘ _Of course-- send for Yvain, if he is still in Paris, he has friends on the police force.’_ “Take this back to my sister please,” Courfeyrac said, buttoning up his coat. “Where is my sword cane? Ah ha-- let Blanchefleur know that I am on my way.”

The dandy in him protested at the idea of going out of doors less than perfectly and stylishly dressed against the elements, so he was still winding his scarf on, and working his fingers into his gloves when he bowled over Joly and Bossuet.

“We were coming to call on you, but I see you are less than pleased with the notion,” said Bossuet. Joly added a sneeze for emphasis.

“Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s father’s gone missing,” said Courfeyrac.

Bossuet picked himself up out of a snowbank. “The one who waltzes so divinely?”

“I hope you are talking about Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and not her father,” said Courfeyrac, locating his top hat once again. He shook the snow off of it. “Though Monsieur Fauchelevent very well could waltz divinely, I have never asked him to dance. He went on some mission of mercy by La Saltpeterie-- I think there must have been some violence there, as Marius lives near there and came to my apartment last night in a state of severe shock.”

“Of course, we will help you,” said Joly, “but let me grab my black bag first-- should I take a fiacre to meet you around there?”

“Oh, what a Rothschild you are,” exclaimed Bossuet. “It is sort of on our way, is it not? If we split the fare, or rather, if you and Courfeyrac split the fare, it will be a much more reasonable expenditure. I don’t fancy waiting for the omnibus in this rain of white butterflies.”

They searched up and down the rue de l’Hospital until Courfeyrac stumbled upon Marius’s landlady. He only just kept himself from commenting on the magnificence of her beard and said, “Ah, hallo my dear lady! How dost thou fare on this glorious winter day?”

“Your friend’s no longer here,” said Ma’am Bougon, sweeping snow off of her stoop. “Came with a handcart and took all his furniture, in all this snow! But Lord! How can one expect him to be with all the to-do about the place! His neighbors were arrested for kidnapping some rich gentleman. Is that how they treat respectable establishments these days, trying to bludgeon rich men all over one’s attic?” She squinted at Courfeyrac, rendering her already terrible aspect fearsome. “Say, that young fellow, with the air of a girl-- one could not expect it of him, but is he...?”

“No, I saw him last night and he looked terrified,” said Courfeyrac. “Good God, is that why? His neighbors killed someone?”

“Well not killed,” said Ma’am Bougon, almost reluctantly. “Maimed or seriously injured, perhaps. The police got there before they could kill anyone. But you know that dangerous fellow, Bigrenaille, the police inspector led him out of my building in handcuffs! I swear I saw him earlier that day and I told the portress of the neighborhood, ‘Well, and is that not Bigrenaille? The neighborhood is getting so dangerous’ and she told me, ‘Where are your eyes?’ and I said, ‘Right in my head, you old bat’ and she said-- but no, I am sure it _was_ Bigrenaille, earlier, for your friend came out of doors in his decent coat, I suppose he was turning in some manuscripts, and he saw Bigrenaille and ran right off! And then the police came later, so he must not have been part of it, but poor, impractical, girlish boy he was, no wonder he took fright and ran off!”

“What happened to the kidnapped gentleman?” asked Joly, shifting his black medical bag from hand to hand.

“One of the policemen said he escaped from the Jondrettes-- the tenants of mine who turned out to be so bad. Not that I didn’t have my suspicions about them! They broke a pane of glass before they left, and the seat of a chair, _and_ splattered cheap tallow all over my walls!”

“Well yes, but how?” asked Joly, impatient from the cold.

“Lord, I don’t know how the Jondrettes managed to turn my house-- always tidy as a pin, for it is only when you stop being clean that you stop being respectable-- into such a mess, and there was tallow on the ceiling, too!”

“No, no, I mean the gentleman. How did he escape?”

Ma’am Bougon squinted at him. “Ah ha! Don’t believe that there wasn’t a murder? You are all such gruesome young fellows, I blame all those romances popular now-a-days where everyone dies horribly at the end. What is France coming to! But he escaped, there was a rope ladder I had to cut down, and there were great dirty scuffmarks all over the side of my building. And how am I supposed to clean that, I ask you!”

Alarmed, Courfeyrac and Bousset exchanged glances and ran around the building, Joly following after. Any footprints had been lost in the falling snow, but Bossuet unearthed a chisel by falling over it.

“I suppose that is how Monsieur Fauchelevent escaped,” said Courfeyrac. “Good God, what a tangle! Where could he have gone from here? Home? If so...” Courfeyrac frowned at the streets and then swiveled around. “The Rue Plumet is this way.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Bossuet. “Permit me only to say that I am impressed at how you managed to have associations with the chief members of this little drama. It could have been a crime attributed to Robert Macaire-- and let us hope the interrupted ending of the proposed murder will result in a comedy instead of a tragedy.”

“Well, no murdered police inspectors so far,” said Courfeyrac, poking at snowdrifts with his cane. “We have cause to rejoice on that end.”

Joly rubbed his nose with the knob of his cane. “I am surprised Marius had it in him to run to the police, when he wouldn’t join us on the barricades in 1830. One never knows what will spur the dreamer to action.”

They found Monsieur Fauchelevent a quarter of an hour later, hiding in an alley, delirious with fever, and pressing a handful of snow to a hideous burn on his arm.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, glimpsing a hunched figure with very white hair.

“Hush!” snapped Monsieur Fauchelevent. “They will hear you and find me! Give me your cravat, I tried to use mine, but it fell off.”

“Let me dress the wound first,” protested Joly, sprinting towards the alley.

“Ah, who are you? The one with the glasses who hunts? Give me the knife in your boot, I may have need of it.”

“Well, I have glasses,” said Joly, dubiously, “but I think you mean Combeferre. No, hold it out, let me see-- oh my Supreme Being! It looks like something out of the torture chamber.”

“Quiet!” snapped Monsieur Fauchelevent. “Dress it and let me be on my way. I have to go before they find me.”

“I’ll call a fiacre,” said Bossuet. “A hospital, do you think?”

“No,” snapped Monsieur Fauchelevent. “Be on your way! You will bring suspicion down upon me if you keep standing there. Careful, there!”

Joly took out his flask, poured brandy over his folded handkerchief and placed it over the burn. Courfeyrac tore off his cravat and handed it over at once. Monsieur Fauchelevent tested the knot once Joly had bound up the wound, nodded once, and began to push himself up by using the wall.

“No, no, you need bed rest,” said Joly, as Monsieur Fauchlevent went stumbling on through the snow drifts. “Sir, your wound is inflamed, you have a fever! It’s worse than the one I had last week!”

“Go separate ways, do not follow me,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “The snow will cover your tracks-- go for the sewers if you must!”

“He really is far gone,” whispered Joly to Courfeyrac, as they stumbled through several feet of snow after Monsieur Fauchelevent. “He talks as if fleeing some combat. Was he a veteran of the Russian campaign?”

“When did the sewer septic system of Moscow ever feature in accounts of the Russian campaign?” asked Courfeyrac.

“ _I_ don’t know,” Joly replied, a little irritably. “I concern myself with the minutiae of the Revolution, not the Empire. Oh my Divine Watchmaker, I can feel the most dreadful cold coming on-- sir, sir! No sir, the fiacre is for you, you needn’t run!”

The coach driver pulled up his horses and looked down suspiciously at them.

“Oh father, I told you not to take the whole bottle of laudanum!” Courfeyrac improvised wildly. “I realize that in this snow it’s an easy mistake to make, but this is not Russia, you needn’t go looking for the Emperor!”

The coach driver shook his head. “My father’s the same. Poor man, always looking for his lost leg. We’re not in Belgium I tell him. Your leg’s in another country.”

“So you know how it is,” Courfeyrac said.

It was at that moment Monsieur Fauchelevent entirely forgot who Bossuet was, growled that they would never take him alive, and punched Bossuet in the face.

“Just like my father,” sighed the coach driver.

Monsieur Fauchelevent staggered backwards, a little disoriented, before trying to run down an alley. He slipped on a hidden patch of ice and fell heavily into a snowdrift.

“It is so nice to meet a, er, brother-in-arms, as it were,” said Courfeyrac, as he scrambled through the snow.

“My Supreme Being, that man has a mean right hook,” exclaimed Joly. “I am surprised he didn’t break your nose, Bossuet.”

“It certainly feels like he broke _something._ ”

Courfeyrac began dragging the limp, groaning Monsieur Fauchelevent towards the carriage. “I will buy you a drink to make up for it. Good God, he’s heavy. Who knew, er, father weighed quite so much?”

Bossuet replied, a little sourly, “I believe that I am now qualified to guess at his weight class. Don’t look at me like that, ask your new brother-in-arms for aid.”

The coach driver had to dismount and help drag Monsieur Fauchelevent into the carriage. Once in the carriage, Courfeyrac realized that he had no idea what he was doing. He often had such a realization, but it did not make it any less unpleasant. “Euh… to the Hotel Beaulieu on the Faubourg Saint Germain, driver.”

The driver said, a little too loudly, “Well, someone profited from the Empire!”

“Or rather the fall of it,” muttered Bossuet, in an uncharacteristically sour mood. Courfeyrac began counting out the money he had stuffed into his overcoat and then sincerely hoped that Blanchefleur had been left a good deal of pin money, or that Cosette had thought to bring her household accounts with her. Fortunately, the baron had left a great deal of money in the hands of his secretary in cases of emergencies and, as Monsieur Fauchelevent was carried up the stairs by nearly every footman left in the house, the secretary paid out what seemed to him an exorbitant amount of money to the cab driver.

“Some,” the cabbie said darkly, when the secretary protested, “profited from the wars, like this gent’s father here. Mine didn’t. You ought to be grateful, getting a chance to help out a fellow Bonapartist.”

“The Baron of Beaulieu supports Louis-Philippe, the King of the French,” the secretary replied coolly.

“Sure he does,” replied the cabbie, counting out his fare. “Happy Candlemass to you all.”

The secretary, quivering in righteous indignation, turned to Courfeyrac. “In all my years! Upon my soul, I am glad to help any friend of the baron’s, for, indeed, the baron will not stop telling the story of how Monsieur Fauchlevent lifted his horse off of him, but the nerve of the lower classes, trying to get what is not theirs! What happened to Monsieur Fauchelevent?”

“As far as I can tell, some robbers tried to attack him and then he ran off,  after they inflicted a horrific burn. He caught a fever running through the snow with an open wound and no overcoat.”

“Ah the criminal classes make Paris so dangerous these days,” the secretary replied, shaking his head. “Shall I send for the police, Monsieur de Courferyac?”

Courfeyrac winded. “Please, just _Courfeyrac,_ Monsieur Ponteroy. I don’t think Monsieur Fauchelevent is lucid enough for that-- we can call upon the police when he is better. I am sorry to have disturbed you from the baron’s correspondence, but I am sure my brother-in-law will add his thanks to mine when he hears of your service.”

The secretary nodded, and returned to the business of stealing Algeria for the King of the French, while simultaneously deploring the greediness of cab drivers who charged double for driving across Paris in a blizzard.

Cosette, meanwhile, was by her father’s side in the baron’s best guest bedroom. She tenderly bathed his forehead with Hungary water as Joly recounted how Monsieur Fauchlevent was found, and gave her his prescription with more confidence than he felt.

“I have treated the burn with a linen cloth soaked in brandy, which is the most efficacious treatments against burns save for oil of turpentine, or chalk mixed with egg whites, whipped to the consistency of cream. I see no reason not to continue this method of treatment, unless he does not respond well to it.”

“I am so grateful to you,” Cosette said, pausing in her ministrations to clutch Joly’s hand and to look up at him, blue eyes wide. “I can see that Monsieur Courfeyrac surrounds himself with friends as kind and generous as he is.”

Joly began to see why Courfeyrac had been going on about this girl for six months.  Bossuet, sitting in an armchair in the corner, said, “You certainly give us too much credit, but I am inclined to take it. Good Lord, but your father is a powerful man! I have no doubt he could have escaped from Robert Macaire without too much trouble.”

“Hush now, my patient stirs,” Joly said self-importantly. “Sir? Sir? Ah, good evening sir, I hope you are somewhat recovered? Will you allow me to attempt a percussion of the arm, to make sure the nerves were not damaged?”

“This is not my house,” Monsieur Fauchlevent said, his voice rough.

“No Papa, Monsieur Courfeyrac brought you to the baron of Beaulieu’s-- see? There is Blanchefleur at the door, with a new bandage and some brandy.”

Blanchefleur motioned at a footman to shut the door behind her and leave them. “Hallo Monsieur Fauchelevent.  We are so very glad that you are awake. Can I get you anything? Or perhaps you would like me to send for the police--”

“No police,” Monsieur Fauchelevent said, with sudden force.

Cosette started. “But Papa--”

“They were hungry, that is all,” he replied, not meeting her eyes. “I will not condemn them to worse suffering.”

Cosette thought of the spectral procession she had seen that summer and was glad to add her agreement to his, and then to perform all the busy work that so soothe those caring for invalids. She talked cheerfully of how they should soon have him better until her father grasped her hand and told her to go while Monsieur Joly changed his dressing. Bossuet and Blanchefleur went down to the kitchen, to find something to treat Bossuet’s bloody nose. Cosette lingered by the doorway until her father smiled at her and said, “All is well, Cosette, go and help your friend.”

“I am so glad to hear it,” said Cosette with a smile that trembled only slightly. “You will let me know if you need anything, Monsieur Joly?”

“Of course,” he replied, placing his ear on her father’s arm and tapping at various veins. “It appears to have been a burn only to the epidermis sir, you are very lucky. May I recommend you be bled for your fever?”

Cosette shut the door and her false brightness fled at once. She nearly collapsed against the door frame, hiding her face in her hands. Courfeyrac had been coming up the stairs and had observed this scene. He almost sprung forward and tempered the desire to take her into his arms by merely touching her on the shoulder. “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, are you well?”

“He is all I have,” Cosette said, in a choked voice. “I am lost without my father. If he dies, I have no one. I only realized it this morning when he didn’t come home. How selfish I am! Oh please just ignore me, I am a little overwrought.”

“You always have us,” Courfeyrac said, gently. “You came to Blanchefleur for help; I hope you always will if you are in trouble. And....” Here he hesitated, but Cosette turned to him, wiping her tears with her sleeve. The sight of Cosette in tears broke his heart. “Poor little lark! I hope you know that I care for you very deeply, and that is terrible winds buffet you about, you can always find safe haven with me. It is strange-- perhaps it is too much to say at this juncture, but I desire your happiness and your good opinion more than anything else in the world. I am yours for the having, if ever you should need me-- if ever you should want me.”

“I do,” Cosette choked out, and nearly flung herself into his arms. She wept into Courfeyrac’s waistcoat. Courfeyrac was at first stunned, for even when one nightly wishes for something, it only gets one into the habit of wishing, not of receiving. He held her tightly against him, stroking her back, pressing light kisses to her hairline, until she was only hiccupping in his arms.

They drew apart slightly, and Courfeyrac offered Cosette his handkerchief. She blew her nose, loudly and inelegantly. “I suppose,” she said, wiping at her reddened eyes, “now you would like to take back all the lovely things you said.”

“Oh, not in the least,” said Courfeyrac. The curls around her face had been crumpled; he gently smoothed stray wisps of hair off her forehead before lightly kissing it. “I hate to see you weep. I shall heap wildly in-eloquent praises that pretend at poetry upon you until you laugh me out of the room.”

Cosette rewarded him with a watery giggle. “Oh no, I would never laugh at your compliments, they mean too much to me.” She looked up at him and said, a little tremulously, “Is it very bad of me to- to wish to kiss you right now?”

“I should say not,” said Courfeyrac, made suddenly and incandescently happy.

“I like you very much,” said Cosette. “More than anyone else I’ve ever known.”

“How odd you should mention that,” said Courfeyrac, “for I feel exactly the same way.”

Cosette timidly pushed a reddish curl out of Courfeyrac’s eyes. “But perhaps—perhaps we should not take it further, if one thinks practically….”

“I reserve the right to reject practical thinking,” said Courfeyrac. “I’m a Romantic.”

Cosette hesitated for an instant before rewarding him with a bright smile. “Well! That changes matters considerably, for I think I am a bit of a revolutionary.” She was not timid by nature, only unschooled in the language of love and desire, but that, fortunately, is easily learnt. She placed a hand on his shoulder and raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him, gently, chastely on the lips. “I hope that clarifies matters.”

“I don’t know,” Courfyrac replied, with a delighted smile. “I am a dull fellow today, I may require further clarification.”

Cosette allowed herself to be swept up in his arms and thoroughly kissed. She laughed when they broke apart and flung her arms around his neck, unwilling to be parted. “If you are _still_ confused, I am more than happy to oblige.”


	9. In which a lark is watched by two cats

Cosette was happy. It was her natural state to be hopeful, to look at the gleams of light amidst the mud and wreckage, for that was how she survived her childhood, but now everywhere she looked, the world seemed suffused with the light of high summer. All was colorful, all was warm, there was nothing to displease her but her father’s illness. Even in that month-long recuperation there was the joy of reading aloud to him, of proving herself useful, of hearing her father say, “Ah! Cosette! My child, you must not fuss over me!” in such a tone that meant he was actually very pleased she fussed over him. Cosette got to take her meals with her best friend every day, and saw Courfeyrac almost as often.

Nature, spring, friendship, a feeling of usefulness, love for her father, blossoming love for Courfeyrac-- all this, mixed together and crystallized by the newfound gaieties of her free time had condensed into an incandescent joy. She was willing to please and willing to be pleased with everyone and everything. She bore the tender happiness of her thoughts as an angel its lyre; she had been accepted before in the baroness’s balls, but now she was popular. Laudine reported to the baron, with some pride, that the de Courfeyracs still had a great deal of influence over popular opinion-- all it took was Gauvain flirting with a pretty girl to get her noticed in society. Why, at her first ball, Cosette danced perhaps four times in total and now her hand was solicited for every set.

Monsieur Fauchlevent was equally happy. His tormentors had been arrested, he had avoided the notice of the police (or so he hoped) and he had the vague assurance that Cosette did not wish to condemn any man to the galleys for being hungry. The procession of convicts had frightened him, as had Cosette’s instinct to agree that the convicts must have done something really dreadful to deserve their shackled fate. But, the de Courfeyrac boy proved his usefulness by pointing out generally the men did not deserve to be punished so cruelly, and later giving Cosette several pamphlets on the subject.

There were, Monsieur Fauchlevent supposed, certain ways in which the de Courfeyrac boy was useful. A conversation with the baron only cemented something he had suspected: Cosette was in love, but as safely as one could hope, and without any chance of something coming of it. In the fall, the baron informed him, Gauvain de Courfeyrac would most likely be in England, as the ambassador’s personal secretary. That would be the end of the budding romance and, in the meantime, it added enormously to Cosette’s social cachet to have captured the heart of a de Courfeyrac. Monsieur Fauchlevent did not particularly want to increase Cosette’s social cachet, but he was glad to see her happy, and even gladder to know that Cosette would remain his daughter indefinitely. And as the de Courfeyrac boy had obviously engaged Cosette’s affections, she was safe from the machinations of less scrupulous men.

But Cosette’s great happiness came near Mardi Gras. The morning before she and Blanchefleur were to go pick out their costumes (Cosette had happily accepted a place in the baron’s landau for the Carnival parade), she paused at the door of her father’s sickroom.

“I appreciate your escorting Cosette out of the house,” said Cosette’s father.

“It is my pleasure,” said Courfeyrac, then, hesitantly, he added, “Sir, I do wish to inform you that I am very fond of your daughter-- have I your permission to continue calling on her once you return to the Rue Plumet? I must warn you that I am just now finishing my third year in law school, and my future is as unsettled as it always is for second sons--”

“Cosette is much too young to be married,” said Cosette’s father, in some alarm.

“Good Lord, as am I,” said Courfeyrac. “I haven’t reached my majority yet, and I certainly wouldn’t think of asking a happily established girl to plunge into poverty with me, however genteel. No, no, my parents wouldn’t hear of it until I was creditably established in my profession-- which means my exams this spring, some low position in a firm, then several years as a junior partner-- unless of course, the baron takes hold of my career as he is threatening to do, in which case, it is the bar, a position as a secretary for several years, followed by a more prestigious secretarial position--”

“Ah, good,” said Cosette father, in tones of considerable relief. “Yes, your brother-in-law mentioned as much to me. You have my permission to keep calling upon my daughter, so long as I or some other chaperone is present.”

“Yes sir-- and I saw your vicious right hook in action, so you need not threaten me with grievous bodily injury if I ever upset your daughter-- not that I ever would, I was brought up to be a gentleman-- and I do sincerely care for Cosette. I will never do anything to make her unhappy.”

Cosette’s heart was too full for her to stay in the hallway. She knocked on the door and entered with her tray of soup and tea. “Here is your lunch father-- ah, Monsieur Courfeyrac, I am _delighted_ to see you.”

Gauvain discerned from her beaming smile that she had overheard the conversation. He winked and said, “I hope you shall always be so, Mademoiselle.”

“I always am, no matter how many times I see you.”

Her father, now a little wary of his permission being exploited, said, “Cosette, my child, do you go out this afternoon?”

“Yes, to go get Mardi Gras costumes with Blanchefleur. Are you sure we cannot persuade you to come with us in the landau?”

With a look of genuine concern, he said, “I would to please you, my child, but my arm....”

“Do not distress yourself, papa,” said Cosette, who felt rather guilty about being relieved her father wouldn’t be there to chaperone. “You must rest and get all better, and I shall come and tell you _all_ about the parade.”

He probably could have lived very happily without this promise of two hours of endless clothing descriptions, but her father kindly said that he looked forward to it. Courfeyrac kissed Cosette’s hand before she left and, for the first time, Cosette wished her father was off on one of his three day visits to the countryside. A kiss on the hand was very nice, but it was not precisely what she wanted. However, there were consolations; her father ate everything on his tray, was very polite (if perhaps not entirely sincere) in his wishes to see Gauvain again soon, and gave Cosette a very generous sum for her costume.

“I want to be Ivanhoe,” Blanchefleur announced as soon as they entered the Atelier of Poquelin and Henriot. It was a small workshop, on the third floor of a house, with one large room with a second-hand carpet, several chairs, mirrors on the walls, a dress-maker’s dummy attired as a sans-culotte, and, behind a wooden counter with account books stacked neatly on top, a table scattered with fabric scraps, patterns and pin cushions. Behind that one could see another room with bolts of fabric lined neatly against the wall, like soldiers standing at attention, and several half-finished pieces. Rosalie was at the table, and Musichetta was nowhere to be seen.

“Not permanently, one hopes?” asked Rosalie, not looking up from the pattern she was laying on top of a bolt of cambric.

“Just for Mardi Gras,” Blanchefleur assured her. “My friend Mademoiselle Fauchlevent does not yet know what she would like to be-- do you have any sketches of past costumes for her to look at?”

Musichetta emerged from under the counter with a sketchbook. “Good afternoon ladies-- Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, would you care to take a look at some of our past work? Mademoiselle... de Courfeyrac, correct?”

Blanchefleur nodded. “I would dearly love to be Ivanhoe at the tournament, if that’s at all possible.”

“Nothing easier, if you don’t mind paying for cloth-of-silver,” said Rosalie. “If you will allow us to take your measurements, Mademoiselle? Might I take your pelisses?”

Cosette took hers off and sat down to flip through Musichetta’s pretty sketches of gypsies, sixteenth century countesses, Dresden shepherdesses, and butterflies.

“What’s this one?” asked Cosette, pointing to a sketch of a beige undergown with a dark brown over gown, and mask made of feathers.

“A nightingale,” replied Musichetta, as she jotted down Blanchefleur’s measurements. “Excellent choice, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent. Very Romantic. As Shelley says, ‘A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.’”

“Perhaps you could make it as a lark, instead of a nightingale?”

Rosalie was about to ask why, when she saw that her client was blushing profusely, and Musichetta was waggling her fingers in what was supposed to be a significant way. Rosalie looked her confusion until Musichetta came over and hissed, “It’s Courfeyrac’s pet name for her, you dolt.”

“Excuse me for working instead of keeping up with cafe gossip,” she hissed back. In a louder tone she said, “There we are, Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac. Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, if we could take your measurements as well?”

Musichetta took these down and, as Rosalie discussed fabrics, drew up two quick line sketches of what she approximated the gowns to be. Cosette and Blanchefleur were equally delighted and promised to return in three days to look at Musichetta’s completed sketches and to agree on fabrics and pricing. “Is there any better season than this!” Cosette exclaimed, as she and Blanchefleur walked arm-and-arm out of the atelier.

“I think not--I have always wanted to try wearing trousers. Isn’t life wonderful?”

For Courfeyrac, life was equally wonderful. It was a season of romantic and Romantic bliss, for he lived a life of sensation over thought.  This was not very difficult if one was a Parisian law student. Due to a spotty attendance record, thanks to various riots and insurrections, Gauvain was just then finishing his third year at the law school. The academic requirements (mainly, an exam in Justinian law, one in the Napoleonic Code, the commercial code and administrative law, and a thesis that Gauvain had finished in February) for passing the bar were fulfilled in the course of the third year. With the addition of a collection of tattered romances and textbooks that could be called a library, and an oath to be taken as soon as he finished his course and took his exams, Gauvain would technically be a lawyer.

His courses did not eat up a great deal of his time; Gauvain was expected to be bodily present at lectures twice a week and whether or not he actually paid attention was irrelevant. His was a quick, capricious mind, and he was extremely good at cramming the night before to pass the not very arduous exams.  The baron passed a sleepless night or two after actually reading Gauvain’s thesis, as, before the 1830 revolution, the law faculty probably would have sent Gauvain to prison for it. But, around Mardi Gras, the baron managed to extract the news that Gauvain would earn his license by summer from one of the professors. The whole operation had felt like pulling out a bad tooth, and so the baron and his wife redoubled their efforts to get Gauvain to England before he could be exiled there.

This all passed unnoticed by Gauvain, who was, as mentioned, caught up in the overwhelming sensations of being in love. Cosette and her father stayed with the baron a month entire, in which Courfeyrac thought that the house was entirely redolent with the scent of Hungary water, mixed with the lavender that Laudine, unable to shake off her childhood in the South, used to scent all her household linens. All the best of dark and bright seemed to mingle into a sublime beauty when Gauvain was near Cosette; the world was suffused with a sort of light that rendered every object more wonderful, every person more worthy of love. Food seemed to taste better, and he was filled with the bubbling contentment he usually only associated with champagne and macarons.

He was thus quite cheerful when he entered into the Atelier of Poquelin and Henriot the evening after Cosette and Blanchefleur’s visit.

“Let me guess,” said Musichetta, looking up from her sketchbook. “You want to know what Mademoiselle Fauchlevant’s costume will be.”

Gauvain pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, you know me well!”

“That would be against policy,” said Rosalie, from the back room.

“Policy you’ve just made up,” replied Musichetta, who was in a tetchy mood. “Your lady love is dressed up as a lark. I wish she’d chosen a different bird, as the book Joly borrowed from Combeferre just has a large number of engravings of birds that are brown with brown spots. Horribly plain bird, the lark.”

“I think a dappled pattern could be very handsome on the gown, despite the brownness,” said Rosalie, examining several bolts of brown fabric.

“Here’s a horned lark, with touch of yellow,” said Musichetta, holding up the book. “How’s that?”

“Hm, long train on the overgown, I think, a yellow fichu, and maybe just a white or beige cambric underneath... will she want a silk for the overgown, d’you think? Silk’s easiest to paint.”

“Then she will,” replied Gauvain, watching Musichetta sketch this out. “You draw quite well.”

“Feuilly taught me,” said Musichetta. “Oh, buy a fan off him if you can-- his sales always drop in the winter, and I guarantee you MademoiselleFauchlevent will be overcome with delight. From the way she’s behaving, I don’t think she’s ever been in love before.”

“I will, if you can recommend a costume to me.”

“Cat,” said Musichetta and Rosalie at the same time.

Gauvain blinked. “That was fast.”

“You recall that we were both present for the Puss-in-boots conversation,” Musichetta reminded him. “Rosalie, where’s the measuring tape?”

“My pocket.”

“That’s a useful place for it to be.”

“My my, you do get cranky when you’ve had no dinner by six-o-clock.”

“ _I’ll_ _clock you_. That is to say,” Musichetta amended, with great strength of will, aided by Rosalie’s best glare, “we would be happy to take on your commission, Citizen Courfeyrac and I think you, and all your various affiliates, will be _positively delighted_ with the great designs and tailoring of Madames Poquelin and Henriot.”

Everyone _was_ delighted-- except Marie, who had set her governess’s dress on fire, causing that long-suffering lady to quit at once and declare her intention to become a nun, and who was therefore forbidden to leave the house until Easter. Marie was left to destroy her possessions in her locked room while everyone else donned their costumes and go out in the baron’s landau. Upon exiting the gates, they saw half-a-dozen counts disguised as peasants from the regions they cheerfully oppressed, duchesses dressed as the maids they underpaid, and one eccentric baron dressed as a chimney sweep. Everyone was masked.

Paris even went so far as to disguise itself as Venice. The windows and sidewalks alike were overflowing with the curious and the curiously attired. Groups of Harlequins, Columbines and Patalones lined the streets, gazing eagerly at the carriages of shepherdesses, knights and greek deities passing by. Turkish sultans and their harems, Indian braves and squaws, and Chinese mandarins and dancers (none of whom looked very much like the people they were meant to represent) waved and grimaced from open carts, shepherded down the road by municipal guards who, confined to their own uniform, took on the general mien of sheepdogs.

At the Place de la Bastille there was a carriage accident, where Louis XIV was nearly coming to blows with Robert Macaire. The occupants of their carts, several of whom were musicians, had taken the opportunity to start up an impromptu dance, and so many stopped to join the gavotte that it was impossible to go any further. Cosette was content to stare over the side of the carriage with Blanchefleur at first, watching the dizzy whirl before her.

The baron and baroness, who had dressed as Night and Day, a decision that had made Blanchefleur cringe, conferred with each other before the baroness said, “Well there is Gauvain, you see? The cat, there, with chestnut hair. He’s with the Spanish bullfighter, and... whatever that gentleman is. I don’t know. He looks like a Fuseli drawing.”

Blanchefleur waved vigorously at him, calling out, “ _Gauvain_!”

He looked around and then waved his hat at them. It took him several minutes to fight through the crowd, but as the coach was not moving, he sprang up lightly onto the step to greet them.

“Have you any objection to taking us into the crowd?” asked Blanchefleur, immediately. “It looks so exciting!”

“Not in the least,” replied Gauvain. He tried very hard to keep his eyes on his sister, but his gaze would wander over to Cosette, who Gauvain personally thought was the prettiest lark he had ever beheld. “Laudine, are you coming down as well?”

“No, the baron’s leg is acting up,” said Laudine, patting her husband on the arm.  “Blanchefleur, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, pray stick close to Gauvain, the crowd may become very wild.”

Gauvain looked at them quizzically, and could not at first determine what Laudine’s gown of blue with yellow medallions, and her husband’s black suit, spangled with silver, were supposed to represent. After a moment, he asked, “Ah... night and day?”

Laudine was greatly pleased with her brother. “ _Wasn’t_ it clever?”

“That’s one word for it,” muttered Blanchefleur, adjusting her elaborate helmet-headdress. “Oh come now, Gauvain, let’s go! This is the precisely the sort of adventure I have been looking for, it seems like.”

Gauvain helped them out, taking a moment to lean over and whisper in Cosette’s ear, “Well, my lark, I’ve captured you now!”

“Oh no, good sir cat, don’t eat me!” She held up her hands in mock terror. “Have pity on a poor little bird.”

Since there was a sizable crowd behind them, Gauvain snuck an arm around Cosette’s waist. “Ah, it is not as simple as all that. I have you in my claws now.”

“Shall I ever escape?” she lamented, leaning into his side and not looking in the least inclined to do so.

“Never,” Gauvain said cheerfully.

Cosette took this news philosophically. “Oh well. Shall we dance? It’s a waltz now.”

“I would never pass up a chance to waltz with you,” said Gauvain. “Where is Blanchefleur?”

Cosette scanned the crowd. “Over there, dancing with the Judith, by the elephant. Blanchefleur leads very well, you know.”

“Ah, then I suppose the kindest thing to do would be to let her have a moment to go out questing on her own,” said Gauvain, pulling Cosette closer than strictly necessary. They spun amidst the dizzying, colorful whirl of people forgetting themselves long enough to be happy. That was not to say Carnival is always entirely innocent-- very soon Cosette noticed that she was being watched. Several revolutions about their square of pavement later, and there was still a scrawny brown figure, in a short cat mask, staring fixedly at her. She was too happy and felt too safe in Gauvain’s embrace to be afraid.

Cosette pressed close and whispered, “Don’t look now, but I appeared to be pursued by another cat. Perhaps he is one of your friends or relations?”

Courfeyrac spun Cosette around, making her laugh again, and saw a scrawny figure in a tattered brown coat and trousers, with a cat mask. The figure attempted to move through the other couples towards them, but Courfeyrac spun Cosette away. “Hmph, no honor among cats today. Clearly he should see that I am Tybalt, king of cats, and respect my claims.”

“Perhaps he is a rival king?” suggested Cosette.

“Certainly not!” cried Courfeyrac, with all the outrage of a dandy who feels he has not, as he wished, successfully transformed himself into a work of art. “I am clearly the better dressed. He hasn’t even got a tail, or the bell I have cleverly nestled in my cravat.”

“It is a nice touch,” Cosette said, her voice unsteady with mirth.

Courfeyrac moved her hand from his shoulder to the velvet collar of his brown overcoat. “And do I not even _feel_ like a cat? I defy any cat to have a nicer coat than I do.”

“You are clearly the handsomest cat present,” Cosette replied, taking pity on him. She grasped the collar of his coat to pull herself up and kiss him.

“And I thought cats were supposed to pounce on larks,” he replied, grinning.

“It’s Mardi Gras,” she replied, kissing him again. “The regular rules don’t apply.”

They quite lost sight of Blanchefleur for the next quarter of an hour, as they hid under the legs of Napoleon’s elephant, enjoying the opportunities for privacy one can only have in a crowd of masked strangers.  

Eventually, they realized that Blanchefleur was probably looking for them, and snuck out from underneath the elephant and back into the crowd.  

“There’s the fellow again,” said Courfeyrac, surprised. Cosette glanced in the direction he was pointing; the ragged brown cat saw them and hastily turned away.  “Wise to run off before I call him out for pistols at dawn in the Bois de Boulogne.”

“How gallant,” said Cosette, amused at the idea that anyone would think of fighting a duel for her. “There isn’t anyone else in the world I would like to be with other than you, right now. And I would weep my eyes out if anything ever happened to you-- let that be a lesson to you against duels, sir!”

“Oh no, this would only be a cat fight,” he replied, highly pleased with his joke.  

“That was relatively good, for you.”

“You sound so surprised, sweetheart.” But the kiss he planted on her temple gave the lie to his sulky tone. “You needn’t worry, I’ve never actually fought in a duel, I’ve only ever been a second. I’m quite good at it-- Pierre de Rotreau told me I have the tenacity and charm of manner requisite in the ideal second.”

“Should I be more worried about barricades, then?”

“Of course not, I happen to be quite talented at hand-to-hand street combat. Besides-- ah, I don’t think I’ve ever introduced you to Enjolras, but you have met Combeferre, or, more importantly, the dagger he keeps in his boot?”

The rest of the evening passed without further incident. Cosette ate perhaps a dozen different types of crepes, she danced again with Gauvain (and happily never wanted for a partner in any of the other sets), and snuck a last kiss in the entrance hall before he left. Overall, she thought, taking a tray of crepes up to her father, it had been really a wonderful evening. Her father even ate everything she set in front of him, even if it was more out of the sheer boredom produced by listening to an hour of costume descriptions than actual hunger.

He hid his concerns, but was vaguely worried when Cosette mentioned the ragged brown cat that the de Courfeyrac boy had shooed off. He meditated on the incident with perhaps more attention than it deserved. Surely, if Javert meant to catch him out, he would hunt Valjean down himself, instead of sending some untrained constable to stalk his daughter. It was more Javert’s style and, after his series of escapes, the Inspector would want all the glory of catching the notorious Jean Valjean, instead of sharing it with anyone else.

But, as Valjean reminded himself, when they moved back to the Rue Plumet the next day, he was Monsieur Fauchlevent now, and Monsieur Fauchlevent had a very pretty daughter. It seemed rather sadly normal now that strange and badly dressed young men would stare at her in public places.

Monsieur Fauchlevent did not let down his guard until April, and kept a careful watch over his household. No strangers passed on the street without Monsieur Fauchlevent noting it down, but, aside from the officers in the garrison, who also had an annoying tendency to make eyes at his daughter when she was gardening, no one seemed a threat. The de Courfeyrac boy presented himself almost daily, and lost no time in charming Toussaint, but Cosette only saw her new society acquaintances at the baron and baroness’s house; they did not deign to visit the Rue Plumet themselves. And, after a very awkward talk about maidenly reserve with Cosette, Monsieur Fauchlevent felt safe enough to leave for three days to take out some of the money from his buried fortune.

“Where is he going?” asked Gauvain, when Cosette had very cheerfully informed him that her father would be gone for three days.

“I think to collect rents somewhere north of Paris,” said Cosette. “He only started going after my uncle died.” She was embroidering a ‘U’ and and an ‘F’ on a handkerchief for her father and set it down. “I think... I’m not sure, but when I think of places north of Paris, Montfermeil comes to mind, for some reason. I suppose he must have told me once he was going there and I just... forgot.”

This did not seem to be quite right; Cosette worried at her lower lip for a moment, but picked up her embroidery again. “But he is always gone for two nights entire.”

“Is that a hint?” asked Gauvain, highly amused.

“To be nice to Toussaint?” Cosette replied, all innocence. “Usually I just stay at home and bang on the piano forte and run around barefoot since there’s no one to see me,  but I could be persuaded to put on a nice new gown, and serve you some very nice macarons from a shop Toussaint and I discovered yesterday.”

“Oh you know the way straight to my heart,” he declared, stealing a kiss before Toussaint came back into the room talking about a robbery in the neighborhood.

The next evening did not go precisely as Cosette had envisioned. Gauvain came over and lingered on pointedly, but Toussaint had been given orders not to leave the young man alone with the mistress, and sat in the corner, counting the stitches in her knitting in a continual drone. When they went into the garden, Toussaint sat on the bench and talked very loudly about the newly declared cholera epidemic. This was not a congenial atmosphere to romance.

Gauvain bravely held out until the evening when, at last, Cosette exclaimed, “Oh, Toussaint, yesterday you were talking about a robbery in the neighborhood, were you not?”

“The most dreadful thing to happen in this neighborhood, aside from the cholera,” Toussaint declared, justly. “My word, Mademoiselle, imagine those brigands or assassins with their terrible rusted crowbars prying the shutters open and then bludgeoning us to death before we could scream! Or catch the cholera.”

“Oh Lord-- it just occurred to me, Toussaint! Did father lock up his rooms in the back?”

Toussaint put down her knitting in alarm.

“I am sure he did not, since he thought we would be home all the time-- but with the robberies, you know, one cannot be too careful!”

“I will lock them at once,” Toussaint exclaimed, full of slightly paranoid resolution. She rushed out of the room only to come back in as soon as Gauvain had taken Cosette into his arms and whispered, ‘Very clever!’

“I was... asking Monsieur Courfeyrac to bar all the windows here,” Cosette invented, a little lamely, “but he... could not... do so with... a crumpled collar.”

“Er, no, impossible,” agreed Gauvain, his voice unsteady with mirth.

Toussaint eyed them both.

“I’ll just sit down and play the piano so you know I’m not doing anything,” Cosette said, a little crossly. She took out the first book of music she saw, and began mangling the chorus from Euryanthe: "Hunters astray in the wood!" by playing the entire piece in fortissimo and accenting every single chord.

Gauvain tried very hard not to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Cosette glowered at the page, but, as Gauvain stood behind her and soon wrapped his arms about her waist, she began to feel slightly better. “Hunters astray in the wood!” began to have more held chords than the composer ever intended, so that Cosette could keep her hands on the keyboard while being otherwise occupied.

“I think I really must tear myself away to lock all the doors and windows or else I shall never be allowed back,” said Gauvain, kissing her hair. “I’ll be just a minute, my lark.”

“I’ll trill out my song until then,” said Cosette, cheerful once again. She had a pretty voice that had been well-trained at the convent, and a disposition that channeled any overflow of emotion into song. It was a pleasure to her to actually play and sing the song as it was supposed to be interpreted.

Cosette closed the pianoforte and remained wrapped in thought. All at once, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps in the garden. “Gauvain?”

He slid an arm around her waist and pressed a feather-light kiss to the side of her neck. “Yes?”

“So that could not have been you,” said Cosette, to herself.

“What?”

“I thought I heard footsteps in the garden, and Toussaint’s still locking up-- you can hear her rattling all the shutters out back, to see if they’re locked.”

Gauvain pulled back from her and frowned. “That’s odd. No, don’t open the shutter on this floor.”

“There’s a small wicket in my shutter up in my bedroom-- ooh, don’t smile at me like that, you stay here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Gauvain, cheekily. She did give him a kiss before she went upstairs and peered through her window. The garden was perfectly still, and the street was vacant.

“I could have sworn someone was in the garden,” said Cosette, coming back into the sitting room. “I suppose I am merely jumpy over what happened to my father-- imagining kidnappers in every shadow and noise.”

“You have every right to be,” said Gauvain. “I’ll take a look around the garden.” He came back shaking his head.

Cosette spread her arms to him in relief. “Oh, I have never been so happy to be mistaken.” She took a great deal of solace for being wrong from his tender embraces, or at least, she did until Toussaint came stomping back into the house and asked Monsieur Courfeyrac to please lock the front door, too, on his way out.

The next evening was stranger. It was a lovely night and Cosette took a turn around her garden, admonishing herself not to be frightened of imaginary details. She purposefully walked all over the garden, to prove to herself that no one could possibly be hiding behind the box hedges, or in the trees. (She did pick up a stout-looking fallen branch to poke at the bushes, but she told herself it was because she didn’t want to get the sleeves of her gown dirty.)

She emerged from the thicket into the flowerbeds with considerable relief, and looked with pleasure upon the budding daffodils and crocuses, newly brightened by the moon, which had come out from behind a cloud. Then, much to her surprise, Cosette noticed that she was casting two shadows, and that in one, she appeared to be wearing a round hat. She stared at the second shadow in disbelief, her mind an utter blank. How could there be another shadow? She had to have been mistaken the previous evening--

Cosette summoned her courage and turned around. There was no one there. A glance at the ground confirmed that the shadow was no longer there. She thrashed at the thicket viciously with her stick and then whacked at some of the hanging vines for good measure. No one cried out, she saw no fleeing shadow.

Her father returned the next morning and, unable to keep up her usual stream of cheerful commonplaces, Cosette told him about the disturbances in the garden. Her father paused with his fork halfway to his lips.

“The first night, Gauvain-- that is to say, Monsieur Courfeyrac stayed at Toussaint’s request to bar all the doors and shutters and he was in the sitting room with me when I heard footsteps. And then I _know_ it could not have been him the next night because he isn’t the sort of person to go skulking about in people’s gardens, unnecessarily frightening people, when he could knock on the front door.”

Her father grew anxious and immediately pushed aside his breakfast to examine the garden gate.

‘It was the kidnappers who hurt my father,’ Cosette said to herself. This was only confirmed that evening when she heard someone in the garden, and flung open the wicket to see her father poking at the hedges with a large club. She was jumpy whenever at home, and distracted whenever at church or with Blanchefleur, until one night she awoke to a loud burst of laughter.

“Cosette, my child,” exclaimed her father, as she flung open her window. “Come and see your shadow in a round hat-- it is nothing but the chimney-pipe with a hood on the neighboring house.”

Cosette saw a similar shadow in the garden, and studied the chimney pipe with its own, metallic hat. She wanted so desperately to be wrong she laughed, and the next day told Blanchefleur and Gauvain all about how silly she had been. Gauvain did not look entirely convinced by this, and Cosette caught him very carefully checking the shutters opening on the garden before he left her home.

One afternoon, seeing this, Cosette said aloud to Toussaint, “It is so very solitary here, on the Rue Plumet.”

Toussaint nodded. “We might be assassinated before we had time to say ouf! And Monsieur does not sleep in the house, to boot. But fear nothing, Miss, I fasten the shutters up like prisons, and Monsieur Courfeyrac is always good enough to lock them with great strength. Lone women! That is enough to make one shudder, I believe you! Just imagine, what if you were to see men enter your chamber at night and say: `Hold your tongue!' and begin to cut your throat. It's not the dying so much; you die, for one must die, and that's all right; it's the abomination of feeling those people touch you. And then, their knives; they can't be able to cut well with them! Ah, good gracious!"

Cosette grew very pale during Toussaint’s melodrama; Gauvain hastened to lock the shutters with great force.

Toussaint sighed. “Ah, how nice it is to have a young man about the house! Well, no robbers shall get in through _those_ shutters, at least.”

Cosette remained in the house for several evenings, but hearing nothing, and seeing no one in the garden, she went out again. It was her garden, Cosette told herself, she would not let robbers frighten her out of what was hers. She was just about to congratulate herself on overcoming imaginary fears when there was a noise in the bushes. She whirled around, trying to distinguish the shadows from each other and then said, a little displeased, “Oh Gauvain, you could just knock on the door.”

There came a long, drawn-out scrape of metal upon metal. “My name's not Gauvain.”

The voice was rough and unfamiliar, and Cosette could not distinguish if the speaker was a man or a woman. “Oh. I think perhaps, then, that you have the wrong address.”

This was clearly not the answer the spectre, a darker shade of black between the shadows of the gate and the bushes, was expecting. “I got the right address.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cosette. “We’re not expecting anyone. I am very sorry-- it is very dark out and it is quite easy to mistake one house for another. Would you like me to get you a candle?”

The spectre sounded annoyed. “Lord, girl, ain’t you frightened of me?” It took a step forward, which did nothing but illuminate the jut of a prominent cheekbone, which looked to be white as bone against the sunken blackness of the creature's eye sockets.

“I don’t frighten very easily,” Cosette apologized. “I am sure my friend Blanchefleur would have been frightened out of her wits, as I am sure you are really quite a fearsome individual. I just don’t have appropriately... er, Gothic sensibilities.”

The spectre seemed to give up at this and stepped into a patch of moonlight. It was a girl of about Cosette’s age, thin, dirty, her chemise and skirt in tatters, her feet bare, and on her head nothing but a battered, round men’s hat over her dirty hair. “Frightened now?”

Cosette smiled apologetically. “I really am trying to be, but all I can think is that you must have the wrong address. Oh! Unless you came here because we weren’t at church today. Did my father promise you a coat or something? It would be just five minutes to go and get it.”

The girl stared at her.

Cosette realized this was not what was expected of her either. “Er... might I offer you some refreshment?”

That certainly wasn’t expected of her, but Cosette only had good manners to fall back upon in such an unusual situation. She went into the house, took the plate of macarons off of the kitchen counter and went back outside. “See? I did mean it. I can go in a brew a tissane if you’re thirsty too.”

The girl continued to stare at her.

Cosette was feeling distinctly flustered, though, she regretfully admitted to herself, not in the least frightened. She walked over and set the macarons on the bench. “There. Here they are if you would like them. Euh....”

“Are you the one called ‘the Lark’?” asked the girl, abruptly.

“I used to be,” said Cosette. “When I was a child, I think. Why do you ask?”

“Is ‘Gauvain’ the handsome fellow what’s a friend to Monsieur Marius?”

“I think that’s his roommate,” said Cosette, now beginning to feel a little uneasy. “Do you have a letter from Gauvain, or something? He’s the only person who calls me ‘lark,’ though it’s just-- it’s just a pet name.” It gradually dawned upon her that perhaps she should not be relating the details of her lovelife to some random girl in her garden. “Can I help you? What’s your name?”

“Eponine,” said the girl.

“A pleasure, Mademoiselle Eponine,” said Cosette. “Why did you....” Cosette trailed off. “Do I... do I know you?”

Eponine let out a bark of laughter. “How could a fine lady like you know a wretch like me?” She grabbed the plate of maracons and disappeared through the gate.

“What a strange person,” said Cosette.


	10. In which there is a duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for Maturin as Combeferre's advisor goes to TheHighestPie. Read her excellent fic about it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/623312).

Cosette had taken to digging in the garden in her spare time, since it was now spring and it was a delight to be out of doors. The garden had been badly kept behind its rococo fence, and, though Cosette’s love of fashion had killed her adolescent love for dirt, she enjoyed being out in the sunlight, and it pleased her father that she had something to occupy her solitary hours.

She heard a scrape of metal and looked up, knocking over her basket of dahlia bulbs in the process.

It was Eponine, with the plate. She put it on the bench and turned abruptly to Cosette. “Do you know Monsieur Marius?”

Cosette put down her trowel. “No, just as Monsieur Courfeyrac’s friend. I’ve never met him.”

“Really? He’s the handsomest fellow you ever saw, with curly black hair, a lofty forehead and-- and passionate nostrils.”

“And _what_?” asked Cosette.

“It’s a phrase from a book,” said Eponine, proudly. “Monsieur Marius is a poet, and has an old green coat and trousers that go white around the knee, but he knows Greek and Latin and English and German. I read some of his books. It was a book on Waterloo. My father was at Waterloo. Are you _sure_ you don’t know him?”

“Who, your father?”

“No, Marius Pontmercy. He’s a baron.”

Cosette returned to her dahlia bulbs. “No, I don’t know a baron Pontmercy.”

“He seems to know you.”

“I am sure I wouldn’t know where from, since the friend of Gauvain’s I know best is a Monsieur Combeferre, who works at Necker. Perhaps Gauvain introduced us at the Luxembourg, once, but he seems to know every student in Paris, so I never remember their names unless Gauvain brings them to his sister’s house.”

Eponine nudged one of Cosette’s dahlia bulbs with her bare toe. “Maybe he doesn’t know you, he’s just seen you.”

“Why do you ask, is he in some sort of trouble? Gauvain’s not here, but he said he’d visit today around four-o-clock, after his lecture.”

“What is it with you and this Gauvain fellow?” asked Eponine, perching uneasily on the bench. “You bring it up each time I see you. What a strange name! Gauvain.”

“Because you keep bringing up his roommate,” Cosette said, a little crossly. “It is no stranger than ‘Eponine,’ the name ‘Gauvain’ comes from a medieval romance by Christien de Troyes. Gauvain is the Maiden’s Knight, and the nephew of King Arthur--”

“Cosette is a strange name too.”

“My real name is Euphrasie,” Cosette replied, now feeling entirely cross. “Look here, you can’t just come into people’s gardens saying that they have funny names and insulting their sweethearts. I have been digging all morning to plant my dahlias and I’m tired and that’s probably why I’m cross, so I’m going to go get some lemonade and some bread and cheese. You are welcome to join me if you stop saying that everyone’s name is strange when yours is _Eponine_.”

Eponine was still there when Cosette returned, sans gardening apron and gloves, and now with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, half a baguette and a wheel of camembert. “Mademoiselle Eponine, I apologize for losing my temper. Will you join me for a light lunch?”

Eponine stared at her again, before barking out another laugh. “You’re a strange one, Lark, and no mistake. Acting the lady!”

“I am a lady, I was educated at the Convent of Petit-Picpus.” Cosette assumed her best drawing room manners, gleaned from careful observation of Laudine at dinner parties. The delicacy with which she served her guest lemonade, bread and cheese would have been better suited to a duchess giving sherry and biscuits to a marchioness. In a good imitation of Laudine’s conversation, minus the baroness’s rather self-absorbed lethargy, Cosette remarked, “We have been enjoying such lovely weather recently, wouldn’t you agree? Paris is usually so gray this time of year, but these blue skies makes one think of the Loire Valley.”

Cosette wanted to say ‘Provence’ but as she had never been there, felt it would be unseemly to make such a comparison.

“Where?”

“The Loire Valley,” Cosette repeated, sipping her lemonade. “It is south of Paris along the Loire River and has amazing numbers of castles. I think it is one of my favorite places in the world outside of Paris—the sheer number of gardens everywhere, so beautifully arranged! I am trying to make over one of my flowerbeds like the ones in the main castle of Blois, that once belonged to Francois I, but I cannot quite seem to get it exactly right. I had to wait until this spring to plant the dahlias, which will grow to an enormous size, I hope, so long as I have got the soil composition right, so I think that is the largest problem--”

Eponine snorted, which, as she had a mouthful of bread and camembert, sounded very strange.

“I beg your pardon.”

“When were _you_ in the Loire Valley?”

“This past summer,” Cosette said, feeling herself becoming cross again at Eponine’s tone of apparent disbelief. “May I be so indelicate as to inquire as to the purpose of your visit, Mademoiselle Eponine?”

“I told you already.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did, you just have feathers in your ears, Lark, if you haven’t caught it.” Eponine downed her lemonade and stole the rest of the bread and cheese before running out of the garden.

Cosette told Gauvain of her strange visitor that afternoon.

“Strange,” said Gauvain, sprawled on one of Cosette’s old shawls as he watched her plant the rest of her dahlia bulbs. Cosette’s father was at the other end of the garden, occasionally sending cold looks meant to scare Gauvain out of his springtime informality. “Marius is a quiet fellow, very reserved. I don’t know any Eponine, but I’ll ask him about her. He’ll probably just ignore me and walk off, though.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very good roommate,” observed Cosette.

Even though he was leaning back on his forearms, Courfeyrac still managed a one-shouldered shrug. “He hasn’t anywhere else to go.”

“Oh you are such a sweetheart I could kiss you,” whispered Cosette. “But I won’t because Papa seems to think you are here to corrupt me.”

“If I haven’t succeed by this point, my darling, I should say that your soul is too pure for me to ever damage.”

“I am not sure that’s what he’s worried about,” said Cosette, doubtfully, “but I have forgotten the rest of my story. I’m sure I have seen her somewhere before, though surely I would remember a name like ‘Eponine.’”

“It is unusual, my darling Euphrasie.”

“Well, _Gauvain,_ I suppose that we must now make a rule that only those with unusual names are allowed into my garden. Do you like ‘Euphrasie’ better than ‘Cosette’?”

Gauvain considered this carefully. “They both have their charms. Though there is a certain music to the name ‘Cosette’ for me, you’ve certainly seemed happy enough recently to take on ‘Euphrasie,’ with impunity.”

With a tender look at him, Cosette asked, “And can you guess why I have been happy?”

Gauvain grinned. “You will give me far too good of an opinion of myself, my lark. I have been meaning to ask-- how did your father, presumably, derive ‘Cosette’ from ‘Euphrasie’? There don’t appear to be even any syllables in common.”

“My mother somehow did that,” said Cosette, “and she has taken that secret to her grave. It is a mystery.”

Eponine also remained a mystery. The next day, when Cosette and Blanchefleur were walking in the Luxembourg, Gauvain spotted them and joined them long enough to say that Marius mentioned Eponine had been his neighbor, before Marius lost interest in the conversation and wandered off to the Field of the Lark.

“You two have all the exciting adventures,” complained Blanchefleur, good-naturedly. “I am quite envious. I have never heard of the Field of the Lark. Where is it?”

“It is on the outskirts of Paris, where laundresses wash their linens.”

“You have strange friends,” said Blanchefleur.

“He’s a poet,” said Courfeyrac. “At least, I think he is, he has taken to carrying around a commonplace book where he writes down all his thoughts on love. One must make allowances for poets, they disdain to act like ordinary men, lest their poetry turn out ordinary as well.”

“Isn’t that your friend, Monsieur Combeferre?” asked Cosette, glancing down one of the tree-lined alleys. The Park was otherwise deserted; most of the students were still asleep and most everyone else had fled Paris soon after the government had declared a cholera epidemic.

Combeferre, looking somewhat harassed, was following his internship supervisor. “But sir, the patients do not respond to the purgative--”

“Or perhaps, they die before the purgative takes effect,” mused the doctor, hands linked behind his back, and eyes on the ground. He was in his early middle age, but looked older from his hunched stance, the dark circles under his eyes, and the gray threading its way through his hair. His whole attitude was one of weary defeat. “We shall double the dose next time, Monsieur Combeferre, make a note of it. I am still of the opinion that the only cure for such a dangerous miasma is immediate evacuation. If not an evacuation of Paris, then certainly an evacuation of the bowels.”

“But the chief characteristic of the cholera is the evacuation of the bowels, sir--”

“Merely the humors of the body attempting to correct themselves. We must aid them.”

“Ah, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, in some relief. “How are you today? And Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac and Mademoiselle de Fauchelevent, how are you?”

“Much better than you, apparently,” said Blanchefleur, with her usual frankness. “I hope you are taking precautions against your patients.”

“What do you mean, Mademoiselle?” asked the doctor.

“My brother Yvain has friends on the police force and he was telling us yesterday that in the Marche des Innocents a mob of market women and fishwives saw an old Jew, carrying a bottle of camphor as a preservative and thought he was poisoning their wells. They stabbed him to death.”

“Fear is the most dangerous miasma of all,” said the doctor, shaking his head.  “It makes as little distinction as the cholera does. Yesterday I failed to cure a young baroness, today I failed to cure a baker.”

“May I present my supervisor, Dr. Morrell?” added Combeferre. Everyone exchanged bows and curtsies, as Combeferre hastened through the presentations demanded by politeness.

Courfeyrac muttered to Combeferre, “I thought you were studying under that Irish fellow, what’s-his-name.”

“Not after what I did in 1830,” Combeferre replied darkly. “Dr. Maturin has grown cynical in his old age and he found my idealism grating. Idealism is action and cynicism inaction in the face of a problem. I would rather throw myself mightily against injustice than avoid it altogether.”

Dr. Morrell pretended not to hear this gossip and instead said, “A pleasure, a pleasure. I take it you are the Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac who is the sister to the baroness of Beaulieu?”

“I am,” said Blanchefleur. “A pleasure, sir-- oh, excuse _me._ ” This was addressed, rather frostily, to a man who had nearly knocked her over. The man looked half-wild, his cravat askew, his hat missing, his coat gaping open, and only one hand gloved. A dandyish young man was chasing after him, panting, “No-- d’Epinay, calm yourself!”

“Are you, sir, Dr. Morrell?” asked the wild man.

Courfeyrac, who was a practical fellow, had noticed the man’s missing glove. Courfeyrac stepped forward and said, immediately, “I think your friend is calling for you, my good man. You are in some distress--”

“Distress!” the man cried. “Yes, I was, but not as much as my poor Lisette. Sir--”

“Think of what you’re doing, issuing a challenge so publically,” Courfeyrac hissed, taking him by the arm, and angling himself to best block the shocked stares of Cosette and Blanchefleur. “Sir, this is not the appropriate venue.”

The young dandy at last caught up and panted, “D’Epinay-- Albert-- please, you are overwrought.”

Monsieur d’Epinay shook off Courfeyrac and announced, “Dr. Morrell, my wife the baroness d’Epinay is dead and you are to blame!” He flung his glove into the stunned face of Dr. Morrell. “I demand satisfaction! Either you pay for the life you have ended or you will take mine as well.” This last was said brokenly, as almost a sob.

The young dandy seized his friend. “Oh now you’ve done it, Albert! You challenged a doctor, in the Luxembourg, for not knowing how to cure cholera!”

“Lisette said she was poisoned!”

“She was feverish, she thought the wells were all poisoned! It was the cholera that got her, not the doctor--Albert, _apologize_.”

“I shall not,” Monsieur d’Epinay thundered. “Sir, I have thrown down my glove. The only honorable action you can take is to pick it up and name your seconds.”

Dr. Morell was stunned but said, gruffly, “If this is what your honor demands-- God knows, sir, that I have blamed myself for not administering my drugs quicker, for not curing those who depended upon me. Very well, I take responsibility—Monsieur Combeferre, have you any experience in duels, or merely student riots?”

Combeferre was almost baffled at the scene before him and said, “No sir-- if you wish it, though, I would be happy....”

“Allow me, Dr. Morrell,” interrupted Courfeyrac, seeing that Combeferre was not entirely prepared for the brand of stupidity often labeled ‘honor.’ “I have some experience in these matters, and, as you are the supervisor of my best friend, it would be my honor to serve you half as well as you have served Combeferre.”

“D’Avrigny, will you act for me?”

“Albert, think of what you are doing--”

“ _Will you act for me?_ ”

D’Avrigny seemed to crumple in on himself. “Yes, fine. I take it upon myself to arrange the details if you will _go home._ Look you have frightened these innocent ladies.”

“We aren’t frightened,” Cosette hastened to reassure him. In fact, Blanchefleur looked as if this was the most exciting thing she had ever seen in her life and was watching the proceedings eagerly.

“Honor demands that the seconds make the arrangements without any interference from the duelists,” said Courfeyrac, trying a different approach.

This seemed to catch d’Epinay; he turned almost feverishly to stare at Courfeyrac and then he muttered, as if repeating directions to himself, before he forgot them, “Yes-- yes, honor demands it.”

“Precisely, sir. Go home, let....”

“I am d’Avrigny, sir,” the young dandy said, with a bow.

Returning the bow, Gauvain replied, “Courfeyrac.”

“ _De_ Courfeyrac,” said Blanchefleur in a stage whisper.

Courfeyrac ignored her. “Let Monsieur d’Avrigny and I arrange matters for you.” D’Epinay wavered a moment, then nodded to himself and made a somewhat unsteady journey back through the Luxembourg.

Combeferre did not seem to believe that such illogical thinking, wrapped up neatly in phrases about honor, could possibly exist, or threaten a man’s life. “Dr. Morrell, you do not seriously intend to _fight a duel,_ do you?”

“Let me arrange matters,” Gauvain repeated, for what was really the third time, but felt like the fifteenth. Then, thinking quickly, he said, “Dr. Morrell, would you disagree to pistols?”

“I have no opinions on this sort of affair,” he replied.

Courfeyrac nodded. “This is the devil of a mess, but I think I can extract you-- if nothing else, my upbringing gave me a sense of self-preservation. I shall act as if my own life was at stake, and may thereby assure you that you will be perfectly safe.”

Dr. Morrell nodded, shaken, and then looked to Combeferre. “You will be my second witness, I assume-- and the doctor on call, though I pray to God we will not need one.”

“You won’t,” said Courfeyrac. “Not if I can help it-- ah... Monsieur d’Avigny, I ought to escort my sister and Mademoiselle Fauchlevent back home before we settle matters. Blanchefleur, if I just hail a hackney cab for you--”

“That’s perfectly fine,” interrupted Blanchefleur. “Though really, Cosette and I are not in the least frightened and we both can be very discreet. Can’t you discuss it in front of us? Look, Dr. Morrell has wandered off and we are the only ones in this part of the park, Gauvain--”

“Ah, perhaps you are Gauvain de Courfeyrac, then?” asked d’Avigny, in some relief. “Pierre de Rotreau and I fence together. He has said you are the best second in Paris.”

Since Cosette was at his elbow, observing the proceedings wide-eyed, Courfeyrac hastened to explain, “Because no one’s ever died or been arrested in the duels where I negotiate-- which is more luck than anything else, as I am always called upon to second duels that were begun on somewhat flimsy pretexts. One duel was so stupid the other second and I made the duelers throw billiard balls at each other until they decided honor was satisfied. But, in general, it’s two shots in the air, or swords until first blood and then everyone goes home friends.”

“I think that is due perhaps more to your talents than you give yourself credit for,” said d’Avigny. “At least, so I hope, as d’Epinay is quite out of his mind with grief and has no right to quarrel with a doctor who could not successfully fight cholera. But I am his friend, he has named me his second, and I must arrange the details as best I can.”

“And you had best arrange it all now,” prompted Blanchefleur the Bloodthirsty.

Courfeyrac sighed. “Fine. Pistols, six-o-clock, in the Bois de Boulogne?”

D’Avigny nodded.

“Why pistols?” asked Blanchefleur.

“There is method to my madness.” Courfeyrac held up a finger. “Point one, Dr. Morrell seems to be the sort of fellow to take ‘Do not harm’ quite literally and will end up shooting in the air.” He held up another finger. “Point two, one must walk ten paces for pistols which makes for a bleary target when one has not slept and is not thinking clearly, particularly if the morning is hazy, as it promises to be tomorrow.” He held up a third finger. “Point three, unlike a sword fight, where it drags on until first blood, with the serious chance of injury, if both shots fail to hit their targets, the duel is over and honor is still satisfied. My guess, from this unorthodox beginning, is that Dr. Morell will shoot in the air, the baron d’Epinay will miss his target and then they will part if not as friends, with a better understanding of each other.”

“I think you are the best second in Paris,” said d’Avigny, in awe.

And, of course, Courfeyrac, with his idiosyncratic blend of emotional intelligence and practicality, proved to be right. The next morning he presented Combeferre’s set of dueling pistols to Dr. Morrell and the trembling baron d’Epinay. Dr. Morrell looked tired, the baron looked half-dead already.

D’Avigny looked at the pistols, which Combeferre held out impassively, and nodded. “Choose your weapons.”

“To your places, gentlemen,” said Courfeyrac, as both duelers looked at their pistols in stupefaction. “Now, ten paces....” They both reached the swords Courfeyrac and d’Avigny had stuck in the ground to mark the agreed upon length of ground. “At your points, turn and face your opponent.”  

They both turned, gray and wavering shadows in the foggy dawn.

D’Avigny looked anxious but Courfeyrac merely said, “We have agreed upon alternate shots. Dr. Morrell, as you were challenged, you shoot first.”

Dr. Morrell slowly raised his gun up to the level of d’Epinay’s chest before pointing the barrel up at the sky. “I cannot fire upon you, sir, you have done me no injury.” Morrell fired into the air.

D’Epinay was very pale. He grasped convulsively at his gun, his arm wavering. At last, with a seemingly involuntary movement of his arm, he fired at a tree five or six meters to Dr.  Morrell’s right.

“There now, is your honor satisfied?” asked Dr. Morrell, kindly.

D’Epinay fell to his knees and began weeping bitterly.

“Albert, Albert calm yourself,” said d’Avigny, rushing over. “Here is my handkerchief. Albert-- think of the future--”

“What kind of future is there without her?” spat d’Epinay.

This struck Courfeyrac forcibly, as, relieved at the proceedings, he was just then thinking of how to best tell the story to Cosette. It occurred to him that when he did envision the future, Cosette was part of it. It was almost an uncomfortable realization, for Courfeyrac was practical at heart, and he knew just how unlikely such a future would be. He looked at Combeferre, as he usually did when in need of practical advice.

Combeferre merely said, “This confirms what I have long believed: sloppy thinking apparently leads to sloppy shooting.”

This was true, but it made for an unsatisfying story when he told it to Cosette that afternoon. Her father was at the other end of the garden, trimming the hedges with a very imposing pair of hedge clippers, and they were in the flower beds, partly shielded from view by the newly sprouted daffodils. Cosette was ostensibly pulling out weeds audacious enough to penetrate the golden host, but she managed to sneak one of her hands into his during the course of his story.

“Rather a grim affair,” said Courfeyrac, shaking his head. “I am glad to be done with it.”

“I am glad no one was really hurt,” said Cosette. “How dreadful—one feels so for all involved. I am so very proud of you for getting everyone out of that safely.”

“You give me too much credit, sweetheart.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Cosette said, after a moment. “You read people very well and you tend to improvise your best plans. You are very good at the sort of thing you did this morning.” She squeezed his hand. ‘What did Monsieur Combeferre have to say about it?”

This brought up Courfeyrac’s previous, uncomfortable revelation: that it was now impossible for him to imagine a happy future without Cosette in it. But he was unused to being serious; he said instead, lightly, “A one-liner, what else? Not one of his best, but he has been run off his feet every day since cholera came to Paris. Do you think you will leave Paris?”

“Not unless Blanchefleur asks us to come with her and the baron and baroness,” said Cosette. “I’m never ill and, aside from February, neither is Papa. And, anyways, since Papa heard Monsieur Combeferre talk about the epidemic, we have not been leaving the house much, to stay out of the more dangerous miasmas in the Faubourg Saint-Michel. Are you leaving Paris soon?”

“Oh no, I have to sit my exams soon, and though my father usually isn’t in good enough health to write, he has sent me a very tender-hearted and very emotionally manipulative note saying how proud he is of me for passing the bar. So I am in Paris indefinitely.”

Cosette smiled at him. “Good. I don’t know quite what I’d do if I couldn’t see you every day. I’ve gotten so used to it—I’ve gotten so used to being happy. It’s such a wonderful feeling.”

Courfeyrac hesitated a moment, unwilling to break the charming idyll in which he had lived for the past few months, before asking, “Cosette-- sweetheart, have you any thoughts for the future?”

Cosette looked at him curiously. “I suppose-- well, I have been so happy, I haven’t given much thought to the future. Or the past at all. Just to the present. Why?”

It was not something he could immediately put into words; Courfeyrac took Cosette’s hand in both of his and played with her gardening glove, smoothing it against the back of her hand, tugging at the cuff to make sure it fit correctly. It frustrated him not to be able to precisely communicate his sense of unease and unhappy anticipation, so he continued to toy with her hand as he said, “Oh, no reason at all.”

But Courfeyrac was left with a distinctly unsettled feeling, as if he had just realized Damocles’ sword above his head, ready to fall and sever the tenuous thread of happiness that bound him to Cosette.

 


	11. In which Courfeyrac auto-defenestrates

"Happiness is a new idea in Europe," Courfeyrac muttered to himself, for about a week after the duel. As he liked to be a Socratic gadfly when involved in any institution, he had once declared at his Catholic boarding school that neither Saint Peter nor Saint Paul would be his patron saint- he preferred Saint-Just. (He'd had to say Hail Marys until he lost his voice for that one, but it had been worth it). Instead of believing, as his sister Laudine did, that one bribed one's way into happiness, Courfeyrac very sincerely believed what Saint-Just had said when making his remarks on the Constitution of 1793, "that man was born for peace and for liberty, and was made unhappy and corrupt by the insidious laws of oppression. So if one gives to man laws in accordance with his nature and his heart, he would cease to be unhappy and corrupt."

It was a bit of a shock to realize how true that was; the unwritten laws of society had so acclimated everyone to their misery, from those in the rusting iron manacles of the convict, to the golden bracelets that adorned the wrists of the duchess, that no one believed happiness was a feasible goal. Courfeyrac mentioned his hope for happiness one evening to Yvain, who snorted and told him not to drink any more, he had clearly reached his limit. Laudine did not appear to understand him in the slightest, and, though Blanchefleur looked sympathetic, she said, a little hesitantly, "But surely that is the Platonic ideal, not a practical goal."

Courfeyrac was egalitarian and free-spirited by nature, and his heart irrevocably belonged to Cosette; if he could live not according to the specific set of unwritten social laws that governed him thanks to an accident of birth, but according to the dictates of his heart and his conscience, then he could be happy- he could be so very happy. But, as it was, his links of gold began to weigh upon him; Courfeyrac knew and knew well that a society and a set of laws based on inequality hurt everyone eventually, even those born into privilege, but now he felt it. He had been agitated with and agitating against the government since it had condemned fifteen student protesters on 27 February, but now he felt personally harassed by the society that would calmly allow a handful of aristocrats to flat out steal a revolution, but would not allow him to steal away somewhere with Cosette.

Courfeyrac was thus in an uncharacteristically thoughtful mood when the baron's secretary called him into the study. Courfeyrac was absorbed in somewhat hesitant predictions about his future and paid no attention to his present. He failed to see the secretary presenting a letter to the baron with an air of triumph, or the baron's look of pleased surprise. Courfeyrac was not even aware that the baron was at first speaking to him, until the baron looked at him expectantly.

"I beg your pardon, Maurice, I was not attending."

"I asked if you knew whom had written me this letter from England?"

"Ivanhoe," suggested Gauvain, flopping into a chair.

The baron was pleased with Gauvain and thus merely said, "No, it is from our ambassador to England, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord."

"Euh, huzzah for that," said Gauvain, extremely puzzled.

"Indeed- and, did you know, his bastard son is very impressed with you?"

"Who, Eugene Delacroix?"

The baron waved away this rumor with the letter. "No, no, that's an unfounded rumor."

Gauvain frowned. "Euh... what's his name, Josephine Bonaparte's daughter's lover? I think I met him once at one of your card parties. Was he impressed with my ability to make whist entertaining?"

"Again, no, but you are closer- think not of the comte de Flahaut, but the baron d'Avigny."

"I had no idea his mother was one of Talleyrand's lovers."

The baron smiled. "Indeed, one would be surprised at the number of aristocratic women that fell for the great Talleyrand, or at least, for his power and the chance to help redraw the maps of Europe. I recall when I was first starting out as Talleyrand's personal secretary in Vienna-" The baron's own personal secretary was looking a little too keen on this particular story, so the baron merely contented himself with a sigh. "Well, were you not a negotiating second with the baron d'Avigny?"

"Yes- a very sad affair. A friend of his challenged a doctor to a duel. The both fired in the air."

"And you successfully manipulated the affair to make the two men come to that point."

Gauvain began to suspect what was coming and shifted uncomfortably in the Louis XIV chair in which he now felt imprisoned.

"D'Avigny was very impressed- so impressed, in fact, that he wrote to his father about it. Now, I have been recommending you to Talleyrand for about three months now and this letter seems to have convinced him that I was not writing out of partiality. You really are fit for the post. In short, in September, you will have it."

The baron beamed at Gauvain.

"...the fuck?" said Gauvain, staring at the baron in abject disbelief.

"I thought I might astonish you," said the baron, very pleased with himself. "I always did see myself in you, Gauvain. The Revolution captured my imagination when I was a young man. Ah, it does please me to have you begin your political career in the same position I did. Ponteroy, if you would be so kind as to go ask the butler to bring up a bottle of champagne? Thank you."

"Oh my God," said Gauvain, once they were alone, "what in hell makes you think I would be a good personal secretary to  _Talleyrand_? The man has no set morals! He has no political ideals he isn't willing to sell to Russia or Austria!"

"Talleyrand once told me that he does not serve any specific regime- he serves only France."

"Or himself?"

"One can serve one's country and oneself at the same time- that is what is meant by being a citizen, that is why one rebels against unjust governments. You might even learn something from a man who has remained in power through the Revolution, the Directory, the Empire, the Restoration, and now, the reign of Louis-Philippe."

"Yes, I can learn how to politically prostitute myself."

"Gauvain-"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot that I could also learn how to abandon any sense of natural law or basic human morality."

"But listen-  _listen_ a moment, Gauvain. This position suits you, you have the necessary skills to become a great and influential politician, if you would only hone them, and learn to apply them properly. You are a practical fellow, you understand how other human beings think and react, you are at home with the society ladies who aid Talleyrand in his work, and you understand how to manage those sorts of affairs with discretion. I very much doubt anyone knows of your involvement in that revolutionary society of yours, and, if they heard of it, they would discredit it at once."

Gauvain sat bolt upright. "How did you-"

The baron leaned back in his chair. "I was trained by Talleyrand. You will be too. Listen, Gauvain, I am not asking you to compromise on your ideals, I am trying to teach you how to implement them effectively... ah ha, and I am forgetting about Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, am I not?"

Courfeyrac flushed. "This isn't about her- not that much- it is about allying myself with a politician whose methods wholly disgust me."

"Learn to live with the nausea," advised the baron. "Tallyrand's methods are the methods of every politician in Europe—and, most likely, the Americas. You will find that is a staple of political power. Gauvain you do not appear to understand me; by all means keep your ideals, believe that all men are equal- but also believe that all men are selfish and you therefore must cater to the interests of politicians before you can work for the will of the people- and where are you going?"

"Out to think," replied Gauvain, uncharacteristically irritable.

His sister appeared in the doorway of the study, looking incurably smug. "Gauvain, my dearest brother, did you hear what we have done for you? I cannot  _wait_ to say, 'Oh yes, my brother, the secretary to our Ambassador to England, Talleyrand." Laudine looked at Gauvain's expression. "Oh, you cannot stay this honest if you are to go into politics. Why do you look so displeased?"

"I happen to have things I believe in, truths for which I can live and die."

Laudine looked doubtfully at her sibling. "Do you? That seems like something out of the last century."

"As is now becoming apparent," said Gauvain, trying to edge past her.

Laudine stepped in front of him. "Oh no, Gauvain, you don't get to reenact Chretien's tragedies. You are going to have an illustrious career and a large family and a  _future._ I have made sure of it- no, don't try to get around me, I forbid you to leave through this door."

Gauvain threw his hands up. "Fine."

He then turned around, opened up the window and jumped out.

" _The window was not supposed to be an option_ ," shouted Laudine, running across the study.

" _You should have specified_ ," Gauvain retorted, from the gravel driveway below the window.

"One usually does not need to specify auto- defenestration!"

"I think he does have the makings of a good politician," remarked the baron. "He follows the letter of the law, not the meaning. But let him go, Laudine, he needs to get over this 'incorruptible' phase on his own. The truth of the matter is that we live in a corrupt society, and if one is not attempting to purify it through the violence of total revolution, one must dirty one's hands in the machinery to repair it."

"What a vexing boy," said Laudine, flinging herself overdramatically onto a divan. "Well, he shall go to England, willingly or unwillingly.  _Paire_ 's health is bad again, he will manage to guilt Gauvain into starting a good career before he has another fit of apoplexy."

While Gauvain was busy running from his assigned future, Cosette was being haunted by her past. As she was washing her hairbrush in preparation for her usual regime of a hundred strokes per night (instilled in her by the nuns, who liked discipline and order in all things), Cosette heard another noise in the garden.

It was raining heavily, so Cosette at first thought it was only a tree branch falling down. She did not feel much curiosity about it; she had accidentally fallen asleep in her bath and awoken to find out that Toussaint was already in bed and her father had gone into his little shack for the evening. She wanted nothing more than to tidy up and go to sleep again.

There came a knock on the door. "Forever," Cosette said absently. There was another knock; it was coming from the kitchen.

Thinking it was perhaps her father, Cosette pulled on her pegnoir and wandered downstairs while still brushing her hair. She was quite surprised, when she unlatched the kitchen door, to see Eponine shivering in the garden.

"Hello," said Cosette, after a moment. "Can I help you?"

Eponine let out a harsh laugh. "Ain't likely."

"Well, then, what do you want?" asked Cosette."Why do you keep coming back here?"

"Keep asking myself that," Eponine said, rubbing her bare upper arms. "Haven't found a good answer yet, though I am very clever- I know as much as you do, I bet. I can tell you when the Bastille fell-"

"July 14th, 1789, because the citizens of Paris thought there was gunpowder there, that they could use against the foreign troops that surrounded the city," replied Cosette, nettled. "I know a great deal more about French history than you might think, I have been taking steps to correct my ignorance."

"The old king died in January of 1793," returned Eponine, triumphantly.

"Yes, for as Saint-Just said, 'No man can reign innocently.'"

Eponine scowled. "Well then, Napoleon Bonaparte came to power in 1799-"

"And then was driven out by Coalition forces in 1814. He returned from Elba and was defeated at Waterloo-"

"In 1815!"

The glared at each other through the rain.

"Now really," expostulated Cosette, wishing only to go to bed already, "I am trying my very hardest to be nice to you and instead you just try to frighten me when you are not very good at it, and then make fun of my name when yours is even more ridiculous, and then tell me I'm a dolt! I don't know what on earth I could have done to deserve this sort of treatment."

Eponine said nothing. Cosette sighed. "Fine, do you need to come in from the rain? The kitchen's a bit of a mess, since Toussaint went to bed before I finished bathing, but I can stir up the fire again."

Cosette held open the door. After a moment, Eponine darted in, in the manner of a startled cat.

Eponine took one look at the copper tub, with Cosette's used towels crumpled around it and said, "Ah, a bath!" She flung off her hat and her tattered overcoat and dove straight in.

"It's used," said Cosette, a little perplexed.

Eponine relaxed into the lukewarm water, the dirty scraps of her chemise rising to the surface. "What luxury! I haven't had a bath in... God only knows. I tried to bathe in the Seine but it was so cold and anyways, you get out dirtier than when you went in, and then sometimes you never want to get out."

Cosette had no idea what to say in the face of this. "Do you want some soap?"

"That'd be fine," said Eponine. Cosette brought her a bar of lavender soap (a gift from Blanchefleur), and then politely left Eponine to soak by the fire. Cosette did not much fancy scrubbing out the tub once Eponine had finished, nor did she particularly want to think about what to do with the dirty water. Instead, Cosette brushed her hair, braided it, and searched through her closet to find Eponine something more suitable to wear. She returned to the kitchen with a new chemise, a belt, and an ugly gown that she hadn't worn in several years.

"Here you are," said Cosette, draping the gown over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. "I brought you a belt, too, which I suppose will have to work in place of a corset... I think it would be very strange to borrow someone else's corset, but I suppose I could find one for you that I hadn't used very much. Here is a new chemise, though, that I've never worn. I have some stockings I could get you, but I don't think I have any shoes to fit... you."

Cosette stared at the tattered brown coat crumpled on the floor. She nudged it with the toe of her slipper.

"Hey, don't throw that out now, that's got plenty of wear in it," objected Eponine, sitting up in the tub, and sending grimy water sloshing over the sides. Cosette stared fixedly at the coat, laying in a dirty heap by the tub, like a stray cat sleeping before the flames.

"I have seen this before," Cosette said, very slowly. "At Mardi Gras. Were you the cat? Were you- was it you? The person staring at me?"

Eponine hunched defensively in the tub, almost crouching against the copper side. "So what if I was?"

Cosette looked at Eponine as she began to pick up discarded towels and started to mop the floor with them. Clean, her dark hair untangled and hanging limply about her face, she looked like a completely different person, she looked... almost familiar? "How do I know you?" Cosette asked, desperate. "I  _know_ I have seen you- Eponine-" suddenly the name seemed to fall through her thoughts, like a stone dropped into still water "-Eponine Thenardier."

The name rippled through her memory; stirring up shadows of her past that until then she had been content to leave alone. Cosette dropped the towels at once; cleaning the floor was suddenly horrible to her, an act laced with fear and distantly remembered pain. She clutched the lapels of her dressing gown together, as if that would somehow keep her safe, keep in her the role she knew and liked. "Eponine Thenardier- of the inn at Montfermiel?"

"Did you not recognize me?" asked Eponine with a twisted smile. "I ain't a fine lady like you, but I recognized you, Lark. I suppose I am smarter-"

"Stop, please," Cosette said. The ripples widened, seemed to form some sort of vast whirlpool down to memories she had purposefully forgotten. She was frightened, for no reason at all, she felt as if iron chains were wrapping themselves around her heart to make her dizzy, to make breathing so difficult, to make the world- a safe, loved world- feel suddenly false, some shadowplay on a cave wall, to distract her from her chains. Her limbs felt numb and heavy; she collapsed into a chair. "Oh my God- oh my dear God- you and your sister- I used to call you the demoiselles, you were the fine ladies."

"And you were the beggar," said Eponine. Her voice was so harsh. Cosette involuntarily put her hands over her ears to try and block it out. No, no, this wasn't fair- she had only just gotten used to living without fear, she had only just fallen in love, she had only just realized how wonderful the world could be- why was this dreadful specter of a girl tearing it to pieces, with such a savage look?

"You were the beggar," said Eponine, almost spitefully. " _You_ wore the chemise that was mostly holes and  _you_ had dirty hair and a black eye and wooden shoes. And now look at you and look at me!"

"Stop it, stop it, I forgot it all for a reason!" Cosette cried. "I didn't want to remember, my father told me to forget it all. We would be  _happy,_ I was to forget the Thenardiers." A sudden and absurd fear descended upon her, as if she were disappearing under the waves of her panic. Would she be punished for not being obedient? She always had been in the past. Cosette hid her face in her hands.

"Some gentleman in a yellow coat bought you," said Eponine. "I overheard my mother say she was going to turn you out of doors that day, because you stole our doll, mine and Azelma's. She was a nice doll, but we had to sell her, like my mother ending up selling-"

"Please just leave me alone," Cosette begged. Tears streamed down her face, but she could not remember when she had started crying. Time seemed to be somehow distorted; the shadows of her past crowded out the present. "I'm not- that-" She tried valiantly to bring back the safe world of that morning, where her only vexation were aphids. "My name is Cosette Fauchlevent, I am the daughter of a gardener and I was a charity boarder at a convent. That's not- I'm not-"

But Eponine could not stop talking. Cosette had noticed it before; once she started to talk, Eponine could not stop. There was an edge of desperation to her tone, it cut through Cosette's defences like a knife. "Don't you remember, Lark? I was a lady, I was, my name was out of a book, I had dresses with lace on them and it was all different it was, you only had one dress the whole year round- not so much a dress as a chemise, but now I got a coat at least, I was never as bad as y-"

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Cosette wept. "Please, I don't know what I've done to you, but I'm sorry! I'm sorry I took your doll, I'm sorry I did, I really am, but please- just..." Cosette stood unsteadily; the world spun and spun and spun about her. She grasped the arms of her chair, but nothing felt steady or secure any longer.

Desperately Eponine rose from the bath, like a leviathan from the deep. "But you see? You have to understand Lark, I wasn't like this always- you have to understand, I was a lady, or I was going to be, so you can't look down on me- you used to be our servant, you weren't allowed to touch our doll and now you come in staring at my coat like there's fleas in it and there's not at all, it's a good coat, a friend of mine got it off the 'Changer for me, so don't you dare look at me-"

"I can't look at you at all, I'm crying too much- can't you please just leave me alone? Please, please, please, I never wanted to remember-" Cosette felt dizzy and had to sink to the ground suddenly. Blackness seemed to crowd at her temples, limit her vision. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please just stop- just stop punishing me like this, I never did anything to you, I only ever tried to be kind- dear God you must see I've been good." Cosette clasped her hands together. Her thoughts were scattering like mercury splattering out of a broken thermometer. "I've been good, oh please, I've been good."

"Are you all right?" asked Eponine, as Cosette fought to breathe.

"Please just leave me alone!" Cosette could not keep from sobbing; her chest and head ached with the effort of holding in her panic. "I told you I was sorry- and I am, I really am! I have been good." This was somewhat of a nebulous thread, but Cosette grasped at it, as she grasped at any hope that wandered into her darkened horizons. "I have been good- God, I have been  _good,_ you can't keep punishing me, I've been good, I swear-"

Eponine reached out a hand to her. Cosette instinctively flinched away, terrified.

"No please, I've been good!"

"What's got into you?" said Eponine, bewildered.

Cosette could not respond; she was lost in her fear. Eponine hesitated and said, forcefully, "I weren't always like this. You needn't flinch from me, I'm clean, I ought to have been a lady." There was a rustle of fabric as Eponine put on Cosette's clean things and then stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

After about an hour of muffled sobbing, Cosette could breathe normally again. Her head ached, her body ached, her eyes ached- everything hurt as if Madame Thenardier really had beaten her again. Cosette did not know what else to do. She tidied up the kitchen out of a nonsensical fear of being beaten if she did not do so, and then went to her bedroom. Toussaint was still asleep.

Cosette had never been so tired, never felt so terrible in all her life. She had felt better during her case of the measles at the convent. There seemed only to be a dark blankness everywhere. Cosette felt oddly numb, now that the panic had left her, had drained her. She sat at her vanity. Her hair was loose. She couldn't remember when she had lost her hair ribbon. She began automatically braiding her hair for bed. Cosette could not meet her own eyes in the mirror.

The mirror tormented her- who was this reflection, how could she still be whole, how could her memories, her life, her self-conception shattering leave no outward mark? That wasn't her, the girl in the reflection, dressed in a brand new, white pegnoir- she was the poor, scrawny, unhappy slave, wasn't she? The thin child who ate the scraps of the table and woke every Christmas morning to see that Father Christmas had left nothing in her shoe. Why was that Cosette's first memory, that empty wooden shoe, as Eponine pulled out a gleaming twenty sou piece from her own?

Cosette clutched at her temples, trying to stave off a migraine. Her earlier panic had robbed her of any ability to keep out the nightmares of her past. Dim shadowy nightmares she had pushed aside at the convent came creeping back into her mind, like ivy worming its way into a building. She shivered, though it was already warm for spring. Cosette's earlier panic had been blind and blank, an hour she could not fully account for- now she saw and understood and deeply felt all that she had been trying to avoid, even in the midst of her initial reaction.

Now she began to remember the feel of chillbains on her fingers and splinters from overlarge wooden shoes on her toes, the bites from the horses she had to water (so that, Cosette thought, disconnectedly, is why I prefer walking), the sting of lye soap working its needle-sharp way through the cracked skin of her hands, the horrible scenes and scents of drunkenness as she crouched under the kitchen table like a kicked dog (her master and mistress had even called it her kennel), the sourness of her mistress's breath as she put her face in front of Cosette's and shouted, "You call this dusted!" before blacking her eye, and then for a week afterwards, Madame Thenardier exclaimed, "How ugly she is with that fist-blow on her eye!"

Cosette stared in horror at the mirror, unable to see herself in her reflection. She had always lived in Paris, hadn't she? Wasn't she the daughter of a retired gardener who had come into his property? Not some- some fly, caught in a spider's web and pulled by gossamer strings of fear to do all the heavy work of running an inn- dusting and sweeping and drawing water and beating the linens and making the beds and- it was all too much.

And then, a memory, more horrible than the last, of a stranger having to pay so that she could sit under the table and dress a little lead sword in a dirty rag, pretending it was a doll, and of Madame Thenardier saying she was an imbecile child with water on the brain, whose mother hadn't sent money for six months- and the worst of all- "It must be that her mother is dead. Her mother didn't amount to much, she abandoned her child."

How did that still have the power to lacerate her soul, after all these years? Why did she remember that so clearly- the man in the threadbare yellow coat, sitting with an untouched glass of wine, Madame Thenardier sitting with her elbows on the table, the carters at the other tables singing some off-key, off-color drinking song- when all she remembered about her mother was a white smile and blonde hair?

Cosette's head was spinning. Everything in her life seemed to circle back to this, this memory- "It must be that her mother is dead. Her mother didn't amount to much, she abandoned her child."

That had been her marrow-deep fear that not even the nuns could eradicate- her mother had not loved her. Therefore, she was unworthy of love. Her life no longer seemed to her an orderly line of childhood, school, and adulthood, but repeating circle as she ran from and then somehow ended up running towards that horrible moment: "It must be that her mother is dead. Her mother didn't amount to much, she abandoned her child."

The world spun around her; Cosette slid out of her chair onto the floor. The numbness she felt in the face of this onslaught was worse than the panic had been. Cosette burst into tears again, almost in the hopes of feeling better. About half-an-hour later, Monsieur Fauchlevent put down a letter from the baron, feeling almost torn at the news that the de Courfeyrac boy would go to England. Almost.

Monsieur Fauchlevent unlatched the shutter of his window, just to be doing something, and seeing the kitchen door banging open and shut in the wind, ran through the courtyard to the main house. He heard a faint, muffled sound, as if someone was trying very hard not to make any noise.

"Cosette?" he nearly shouted. He found his daughter couched on the floor by her vanity, her hair half-braided. She was trying very hard to cry without making a noise. "My child, my child—"

"I am so sorry—I was—I was trying to be good," she choked out, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Monsieur Fauchlevent sat on the stool of the vanity. "My child, I am sorry to see you hurt, but it is for the best he goes to England."

"What?" said Cosette, too overwhelmed with her past to be concerned with her future. "What has that to do with anything? Papa- do you remember an Eponine Thenardier?"

His silence was speaking.

Cosette looked exhausted. "My mother abandoned me, Madame Thenardier told- told you so, didn't she?" She raised her blotched and tear-stained face to stare at her father. "Yes- you were the man in the threadbare, yellow overcoat, the one who lifted the bucket for me on the night Madame Thenardier told me my mother was dead." Then, in a tone of great anguish, she continued on, "Oh Papa- my dearest Papa, you are not my father, are you?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent sat heavily on the stool in front of Cosette's vanity. His great heart was breaking. "No, child."

Cosette managed a smile, but it was twisted and bitter. "Oh I should have known better, I shouldn't ask questions, I was always beaten when I did." But, seeing her father's distress, she took his hand in both of hers and pressed it to her hot forehead. "You were merely too kind to leave me with the Thenardiers. Oh how grateful I am to you- you have been father and mother to me. You have treated me as if I really were your daughter."

"You are my daughter," said Monsieur Fauchlevent. "My child, my child- I wanted to build walls around you to keep you safe."

"You can't not when it's- it's inside me, like it is," said Cosette, thickly, through her tears. "It's the fear, the fear- will I never escape it, that- oh it's just  _fear,_ there aren't any words for it, everything just  _stops_ except for that."

Monsieur Fauchlevent couldn't do anything but hold Cosette tightly. He did not know what to say. He had never driven the fear out of his bones. Every shadow hid a threat, every stranger was an enemy. All he could think to say was what he once heard the Bishop say to him in a dream: "You are  _safe_ now, you are  _safe._ Nothing will harm you while I watch over you."

Cosette wept bitterly into his shoulder.


	12. In which M. Fauchlevent is almost honest

The next day the de Courfeyrac boy presented himself, and Monsieur Fauchelevent, alarmed that Cosette would be attacked with bad news from both her past and her future, told him that Cosette was ill and not receiving visitors.

The de Courfeyrac boy paled visibly. "Cholera?"

"No, no, just a little trifling cold," said Monsieur Fauchelevent, perjuring himself without hesitation. "She has got a red nose and doesn't want you to see it."

"Understandable," said the de Courfeyrac boy. He looked decidedly unlike himself. The careful dandy Monsieur Fauchelevent had so narrowly observed acrossed the garden now appeared on his doorstep with a day's growth of beard, his linens creased, his boots and trousers coated with dust, his hair limp and mussed. After a moment, the de Courfeyrac boy said, "I suppose I am in no fit state to be seen either."

"Have you been walking all night?"

"Mostly," said the de Courfeyrac boy, with a forced smile. "I was in a foul mood, I didn't want to inflict it on anyone, hence my nocturnal roamings."

"Ah," said Monsieur Fauchlevent.

The false smile winked out of existence, like a candleflame blown out by an unseen gust of wind. "I suppose Maurice told you then."

Monsieur Fauchlevent let his silence speak for him.

The de Courfeyrac boy had taken off his hat when Monsieur Fauchlevent had opened the door. Now the de Courfeyrac boy turned the brim around and around in his gloved hands. He was still very pale; one could see the dark smudges under his eyes; he seemed genuinely upset. "Cosette- that is, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent- she is not really ill, is she?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent hesitated before saying, quite honestly, "I have told her, but I do not think she understands yet. She is very upset."

"I don't suppose I could see her?"

"Not today," said Monsieur Fauchlevent. "She really does have a red nose and begged me not to let anyone in the house."

Cosette padded out of her room once Monsieur Fauchlevent shut the door on the de Courfeyrac boy's badly hidden heartbreak. "Who was that?"

"The de Courfeyrac boy."

Cosette had bundled herself up in a multitude of shawls so elaborately that more care could not have gone into putting on a suit of armor. She pulled at the fringe of the top-most layer and said, "You said he's leaving for England in September, last night."

"It was hinted at since Mardi Gras."

Cosette had always had the habit of tilting her head to the side, bird-like, when processing new information. She did so now, and then pressed her cheek against her shoulder and wrapped her arms about herself. "I knew that. I had forgotten. I forget all the most important things."

"Cosette, my child-"

In a poor attempt at her usual cheerfulness, Cosette continued on, "Though what does it matter? My mother abandoned me, and probably for good reason. And even if there wasn't anything wrong with me, it would have been impossible for there to be any shared future between the Thenardier's slave, the Lark, who didn't even get a human name, just an animal's, and a Monsieur Gauvain de Courfeyrac, who even has a participle." She had made herself cry again and took a deep, shuddering breath before going into the drawing room and unlocking the piano forte.

Monsieur Fauchlevent hesitated in the hallway before following after her. "Cosette, my child-"

"I can't speak of it," Cosette burst out, clutching, convulsively at the cover of the piano forte. "Not-" She hid her face in the corner of her shawl and then, a few minutes later, said, in a low tone, "Eponine Thenardier kept breaking into the garden, I didn't know who she was until last night-" And then she could not go on.

"The doors are all locked," said Monsieur Fauchlevent. Then, seeing Cosette hunched under her blankets, just the child in the wood had hunched over in her rags over her bucket, Monsieur Fauchlevent said, "I will lock them again, and tell Toussaint to take a holiday."

Cosette nodded, once, and did not speak for the rest of the day.

Instead, she sat at the piano for hours, practicing scales, playing through melancholic, Romantic sonatas, improvising sad little tunes. It was a very long day without Cosette's usual smiles and conversation. As the sun set, Cosette said, a little abruptly, that she would like to check the locks herself before she went to bed. Monsieur Fauchlevent followed two steps behind as Cosette tested the locks on the doors and windows and then, seeing her continued anxiety, gave her the ring of keys for the house. Cosette took them gratefully and then went into her bedroom. She seemed almost at a loss now that she was away from the piano.

She was so much the sad, overwhelmed child that Monsieur Fauchlevent had found wandering in the wood he said, "Come, sit before the vanity, I'll brush your hair for you." He was a little clumsy washing the brush, and for the first few strokes or so, but the memories came back to his fingertips.

"Do you remember, I used to braid your hair every night, when we first arrived in Paris?" he asked, for that was the last time he had braided Cosette's hair. "You were so happy to wake in Paris and to see you had only to reach for Catherine instead of your broom." He saw Cosette's sad, pale face reflected in the mirror. Then with the sort of honesty he wished from his daughter, he said, "I had a hard life before you, my child- for most of my life I did not live, I merely survived. I hated the world, for it had always hated me. There was no kindness anywhere, from anyone."

Cosette had been staring at her lap; she looked up at that.

"I met perhaps the one good man in France in 1815, a kind bishop whose candlesticks you have seen in my room- but he only turned me from hating. I did not know what it meant to love until I had guardianship of you." He saw a green velvet ribbon on the vanity, he began to braid it into Cosette's hair, as he had done when she was seven, and had just learned to laugh again.

"There are such... gaps in my memory," said Cosette, at last. "Or there had been- I am... seeing Eponine reminded me of all the things-" She broke off and took a shuddering breath. "I cannot even  _speak_ of them, I had to play all day to keep it all-" Cosette felt the blackness pressing against her temples, pressing down on her like the granite block used to press type onto paper in printing shops. It certainly seemed to force out stories she had kept hidden deeply inside herself, so deep she hadn't remembered burying them at all. "Why did you keep it from me? Was it because my mother really didn't love me?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent had been staring at his hands. He looked up, sharply. "What? Of course she did, my child-"

"Please don't lie to me," Cosette said, pressing her fingertips to her temples, trying to stave off that oppressive darkness, "I- I need to know what was wrong with me."

"There is nothing wrong with you, Cosette."

"Then why," said Cosette, "did she leave me with- with _them_?"

"It wasn't by choice." Monsieur Fauchlevent stood up abruptly, went to the window and tested the lock. After a moment he said, "You have a jet bracelet Cosette- do you know how it was made? I invented a way of substituting gum-lac for resin, and slides of iron laid together, instead of slides of soldered sheet-iron, to make bracelets and necklaces. It is prettier, better and less costly. I had a factory in the north of France that made jewelry in this fashion. Your mother- her name was Fantine- she worked in my factory." He looked at Cosette's profile and thought of how happy she had been, how she laughed with the de Courfeyrac boy in the garden, how she used to sit next to Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac, their arms around each other's waists as they pored over some novel, the young men of title and status that solicited Cosette's hand at dances. Monsieur Fauchlevent said, "We managed to do very well with those glass goods; Spain consumed massive quantities each year. We rivaled what is called Berlin jewelry. However, we could not equal the black glass of England. A gross, which contains twelve hundred very well cut grains, only costs three francs. A gross of a dozen dozens cost ten francs and sold for sixty. It really was a good business."

"What has that to do with anything?" asked Cosette, looking up.

"I was... a wealthy man, but a lonely one," Monsieur Fauchlevent said, slowly, carefully. "I gave employment to any who wished it, Fantine was a good worker, and a very beautiful woman. She could not get a position and take care of you at the same time. Fantine left you at Montfermiel before coming to work at my factory. But no amount of work can keep off consumption. She worked long hours to raise money, to send to the Thenardiers for your upkeep, but she- she could not make the payments they demanded. She ended up in the hospital and died when you must have been... seven or so."

Cosette looked at him unblinkingly. "Who was my father?"

"I became your father," said Monsieur Fauchlevent, a little desperately. "Fantine gave you to my keeping- I think perhaps- here, I have the letters." He had kept them in the little case with Cosette's doll and her childhood clothes and had taken them out that morning, to look through them, and think, with pain, of how he failed to keep Cosette safe. Now he took them out of his coat pocket and placed them on the vanity in front of Cosette. "Here- these are the letters the Thenardiers wrote to your mother, asking her for money. She caused a letter to be written every month, and signed her own name, you may see it there, and the Thenardiers responded; seven francs a month at first, a manageable sum for a moderately good work-woman, unskilled at her task. But then, not even a year later, you see here, Thenardier writes for twelve francs, then, not much later, for fifteen. When you were five she became irregular in her payments and was sometimes in arrears- how could she not be, when she needed to send fifteen francs a month? And her trade-"

Here Monsieur Fauchlevent paused and thought to himself, 'Fantine, poor girl, was a saint.' His desperate wish was to restore to Fantine a halo, in lieu of her golden hair, sold so that her daughter might eat. "She was not good at it. She suffered, she worked herself into sickness to try and maintain you. I ought to have seen- I ought to have understood her suffering, offered her help. I had six hundred thousand francs stored with the banker Lafitte, I lived very simply, I did not need the fortune I had made- how little it would have cost me to send for you and to put you in school! But I was blind to one in need."

"I remember..." It cost Cosette a great deal to force herself to speak. "I remember Madame Thenardier sent me to the well in the wood one Réveillon and you- you wore a yellow overcoat and you picked up the bucket for me. And... and I think you bought me from the Thenardiers."

"I did."

"But Thenardier followed us when we left... is that..." She frowned and pressed her hands to her temples. "I have had such a headache since last night. Is that why we went to the convent? I don't suppose it was an actually legal adoption."

"Not... strictly," said Monsieur Fauchlevent.

"That is why you always wished us to keep to ourselves?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent hesitated, but his silence seemed to speak to Cosette, who said, "Ah ha. There. Now I know. My life begins to make sense. And I suppose by taking in the daughter of one of your factory workers, there were... rumors... enemies... you wished to escape. And so we came to Paris instead of going back to your factory. Do you still have one, up north?"

"No, child."

After a moment, Cosette said, "I should have learnt to ask questions a long time ago. I was always afraid of the answers, but I think the pain of not knowing was worse." She wrapped herself up in her shawls again and said only, "Thank you Papa, I am grateful to you," before curling up in her bed and staring at the lighted candle, unwilling to speak again for the rest of the night. Monsieur Fauchlevent slept on the divan in the drawing room.

A dirty gamin came to the door the next day with a selection of second-hand romances and a letter in Gauvain's looping hand.

"My daughter will not receive love notes delivered by gamins forced into service," Monsieur Fauchelevent said repressively. He took out a five sou piece and gave it to the gamin. "Go and tell that to the de Courfeyrac boy."

The gamin eyed the coin, and then, when he was satisfied he was not being cheated of his fare, put the five sou piece and the letter back in his pocket. "Fair enough."

That afternoon the gamin came back again, substantially better dressed. The de Courfeyrac boy had even thoughtfully provided the gamin with a straw top hat, though the gamin was holding it upsidedown, at his side.

"I see, perhaps, my message was not correctly understood."

"I am a much more fitting messenger now," said the gamin, looking extremely pleased with himself. "The gent took me straight to the Temple, not to the Changer, either, but to an actual store. He laid out almost a coachwheel for this-" stroking the lapels of his blue coat "-so you best accept messages for your daughter. And also, I ain't got a note this time, I have a kitten."

"What?" asked Monsieur Fauchelevent, bewildered.

The gamin held out the top hat. In it there was a tiny ball of fur. The kitten raised its head, sleepily blinked its green eyes and then curled itself up again.

"Why do you not keep it?" asked Monsieur Fauchelevent.

"The rats would eat it, like the last one," said the gamin. "Anyways, my momes are waiting for me back in Napoleon's elephant. Are you going to give your girl the kitten? You should, if she has cholera, I saw one of my friends go of that, and he could've done with a kitten."

Cosette drifted into the hallway, still clutching her shawls. "What's this about a kitten?" she asked, in a low, tear-roughened voice.

"Your sweetheart's sent you a kitten," piped up the gamin.

Cosette brightened for the first time since Eponine's visit. "Gauvain sent me a kitten?"

Monsieur Fauchelevent now saw there was no way to win this battle. "Yes, my child."

"And he said it's from his brother's cat's litter," the gamin added helpfully.

Cosette went to the door a little tentatively. She almost forgot to be afraid. "Thank you... ah?"

"Gavroche," said the gamin cheerfully. "Glad to do business with you." He made an elaborate bow with his hat extended and then strolled off down the street whistling 'Ca Ira.'

Cosette took the kitten, but could not concentrate on it until her father had shut the door and barred it. It broke his heart to see his daughter, usually so cheerful, so full of life, so loving and kind, to be so full of fear.

"What is wrong, child?"

Cosette looked at the kitten purring in her arms. "I stole a doll, when I was young. I stole the doll of the Thenardier girls, while they were putting the kitten in the doll's clothes. Madame Thenardier beat me for it. She used to beat me for anything, really, but I had never seen her so angry as when I touched the doll belonging to her children."

"But I bought you Catherine," said Monsieur Fauchelevent.

Cosette stared at the soft ball of tabby-patterned fluff in her arms. "So you did. Catherine. I thought she was the Queen of France." She did not smile, but she did not start to cry again either, and successfully distracted herself with the kitten until she went to bed.

And from then on, Monsieur Fauchlevent tried to counter each old memory of the Thenardiers with a happier one. The pain and misery of her childhood had lacerated her soul, but those hurts could be soothed, they could scab over and heal- she was safe, she was loved, and Monsieur Fauchlevent knew that he would risk the galleys again rather than see Cosette hurt.

Bit by bit they built a staircase out of that black pit. The beating for the stolen doll was replaced by Catherine, the black eye was replaced by the compliments Cosette had received at balls; there was a tenuous co-existance between the light and the shadow but slowly, slowly, they pushed the shadows back. They were there, but they did not trap Cosette in artificial night, not permanently. Monsieur Fauchlevent sat often before the Bishop's silver candlesticks, watching the flaming wick dance against the darkness. It was a difficult fight, preserving that little flame against a seemingly endless night, but the revolutions of the earth continued onward and the sun would rise again. One had to keep that little flame.

And it seemed to comfort Cosette to speak of the Thenardiers in the past tense, to say "she used to beat me" instead of "she beats me." When she couldn't speak, she sat for hours at the piano and let it speak for her. There were days when Cosette couldn't speak to him, and instead would pull the kitten onto her lap and coo at it and tell it stories in the third person about her past. Toussaint, who thought that Mademoiselle was merely upset her young man was going away, went out of her way to make Cosette's favorite dishes, to put Cosette's favorite flowers in vases in her bedroom, to come back from the market with ribbons in green and blue, Cosette's favorite colors. (Toussaint even went so far as to say, unprompted, that she was pleased with the cat, who, despite its size, managed to catch several mice that had been spoiling baguettes for months now.)

There were only two questions Monsieur Fauchlevent could not answer that Cosette put to him:

"Who is my father?" and "Why didn't you tell this to me before?"

Monsieur Fauchlevent didn't know the answer to either. But he repeated the answers that seemed to console Cosette the most: it hadn't been her fault that the Thenardiers had abused her, and that her mother had loved her and had died trying to give her a better future. After several days, Cosette began to believe them. That was her hardest struggle; there were days when there was very little chance of penetrating the gloom that clouded her horizons, and there were days when she truly began to believe that what had happened wasn't her fault, that there was nothing wrong with her, that she was not only worthy of being loved, but was loved, and loved deeply.

After several days, when Cosette seemed better able to articulate the pain of the past, and to bandage it neatly in little stories, she went out into her garden. Her heartbeat seemed suddenly erratic, and the blackness pressed at her temples, but she thought of weeding the flowerbeds with her father, turning over the stones as a girl to see the bugs crawling under it, in her mild depression over the young man in the Luxembourg, looking up at the stars and wondering if the young man looked at them too. And then, best of all, she thought of laughing in the garden with Gauvain, sprawled on one of her old shawls, how they had determined the best places to sit to hide the fact that they were holding hands, the best places in the shrubbery to steal a kiss-

Cosette forced herself to walk around the garden to each spot, embracing all the moments she had been happy. "I was not born to be unhappy," she told herself. "There's no- there's nothing wrong with me." That was still difficult to believe, but she repeated it to herself as she had once repeated her Hail Mary's. It was a comforting mantra as she walked around her favorite spots in the garden: "There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me."

But though she now knew, or rather hoped, that she was worthy of love, and did know that her father loved her, as deeply as she had feared her mother had not, Cosette still felt somehow- betrayed. Dismayed, she thought, hitting one of the bushes with a stout stick she had picked up off of one of the paths. Not betrayed, not by the kind man who had taken her out of captivity. Cosette swung viciously at the bush, each hit a question she did not want to ask, for fear of the answer. But if he was so kind, if he always had her best interests at heart, why then did he keep from her the secret of her childhood? Why had he locked away her mother's letters? Why didn't he tell her who her father really was?

Her anxiety turned to anger.

Did he think she was stupid? Incapable of understanding? Why had he hidden her past from her, so effectively that she was devastated by its return?

Hitting the shrubbery had soothed her feelings; the rest seemed to be tamped down, made manageable when she went back inside and wrote a quick note to Courfeyrac, asking if they could meet in the garden. She had the key to the gate, after all. Then, feeling rebellious, she added, ' _that is, I wish to speak with you_ _without a chaperone present._ _Come this evening, after sunset._ '

She went back out and hit the bushes again until her anger at her father gave way and she realized how her fear of the Thenardiers had turned to anger.

How could they have treated her so? How could they have lurked so in her memory? How could a mere glimpse of the Thenardier girl tear apart her sense of self, her understanding of herself?

"No," she told the bush, now almost entirely bereft of leaves. 'They don't own me, those- those-" Her vocabulary didn't include words for the perpetrators of such evil. "I'm  _not_ the Lark, my name is Cosette Fauchlevent, my mother was not a useless slut who abandoned me, she was a factory worker who loved me and died trying to give me a better life, my father wasn't absent, he owned a factory in the north of France, and my life is  _mine,_ not theirs!"

She almost believed it too.

She thrashed the bush again in the hopes of also thrashing her self-doubt.

"Ain't ever seen that method of trimmin' hedges," piped up a child's voice. "What'd the bush to do you?"

Cosette whirled around, clutching the stick. But it was only the gamin who had brought her the kitten earlier. "Oh it- it was planted in the wrong place, this really needed to be a path. It's easier to move a bush... without... any leaves. What's your name again?"

"Gavroche." He gave a flourishing, though entirely incorrect, bow.

Cosette dropped her stick. "Wait there a minute—I would like you to take a message to Monsieur Courfeyrac, please."

Courfeyrac, meanwhile, was in an unusually foul mood; it was particularly noticeable since for the past few months he had been practically ebullient. He liked to argue in general, but now he seemed to need it, and would very fiercely defend his personal understanding of liberty, equality and fraternity as if his friends, who all agreed with him, were ultra-conservatives who were in favor of enslaving anyone who didn't have a knighthood.

Joly had mentioned as he came in that he had been recruited to help Musichetta move shop to the Marais Quarter, since her business had become successful enough for an actual shop front on the first floor of a building, and had been greeted with a tirade on the dehumanizing horrors of capitalism.

Joly leaned over to Combeferre and said, "What's wrong with Courfeyrac?"

"His family," replied Combeferre.

"Why, is one of his aunts nagging at him?"

"No, he is being attacked by his particle," replied Combeferre.

"I was wondering why he was so sloppily drunk with Bossuet and Grantaire last night," replied Joly. "I was quite surprised at how far gone Courfeyrac was- he usually only likes enough to make himself happy, not enough to make himself forget."

"That is worrisome," said Combeferre. "I prefer it when he only loses his hat, not his dignity."

Bahorel was looking through a recent history of the revolution; Courfeyrac, restless, saw a picture of Talleyrand on one page and snatched the book out of Bahorel's hands.

"What is this monarchical drivel!" he exclaimed. "And this! Ugh, why defile good paper with such slime?"

Courfeyrac ripped the page out and, flinging the book back at Bahorel's table, went to stick the picture on the dart board. "There, that's where he deserved. What were you reading about, Bahorel?"

"Saint-Just's time as a representative-en-mission."

Prying the extra darts out of the board, Courfeyrac exclaimed, "Ah, I bet it's all Thermidorian propaganda!" As he was very fiercely defending Saint-Just's missions to the Army of the Rhine to a bemused Bahorel, Courfeyrac took several steps back, scowled at the board and then began flinging darts at his future employer's face.

"He is a little wild today," remarked Bossuet, eyeing Courfeyrac's solo game of darts.

"He feels he is in some danger of losing himself," replied Combeferre. "Let him be, his anger will burn out once he works off all his usual energy, and he will talk to us about what is upsetting him."

"I am guessing it's Talleyrand," said Joly, as Courfeyrac pulled several darts out of the portrait's eyes and then stabbed them in again as he was making a point.

Courfeyrac was cheerfully stabbing Talleyrand in the eyes for the fifth time when a gamin scrambled into the backroom, ducking under the arms of Louison.

"You ain't allowed back here!" Louison cried.

There was a general scramble- Bahorel and Jehan ran to stand in front of the map of France under the first republic, Combeferre lifted up a barred newspaper to put overtop several of their pamphlets and Courfeyrac, abandoning his darts in Talleyrand's face, hastily flung his coat over the rest of them.

The gamin doffed his straw top hat. "Hey- you! With the glasses! You gave me a carbine in 1830! Also I have a message."

Combeferre had been polishing his glasses. He pushed them back up his nose and then looked closely at Gavroche. "Let him in, Louison, he's safe. Welcome Gavroche."

The gamin tipped his hat and then began searching his pockets for his letter.

Courfeyrac pried out the darts again and went back to moodily trying to put out one of Talleyrand's eyes.

"Generally," said Bahorel, after a moment, "I am all for general violence against tyrants, but did Talleyrand do you some particular injury?"

"He's hired me," said Courfeyrac, in a rather mercurial swing from anger to outright misery.

"Message for you," piped up the gamin, as several conversations halted abruptly at Courfeyrac's unhappy declaration. "From the lady on the Rue Plumet. If you show me how to throw a dart to hit the target like that, I will even waive my usual fee."

"That is generosity indeed," said Courfeyrac, brightening at once. He showed Gavroche the correct angle at which one had to hold one's arm, and the way to hold one's wrist before releasing the dart, and how to best judge the distance to the target. Once Gavroche was occupied trying to hit Talleyrand's nose, Courfeyrac took the note and eagerly broke the seal. He read it through, his smile fading, looked at the gamin, and then read it through again.

"No good news, it seems," said Combeferre, gently.

"No," said Courfeyrac, "but there doesn't seem to be any for me, unless there's a full-scale revolution before September. Good God, I am exiled to England, sold into indentured servitude to the world's only chameleon in human form, laughed at by my family for having ideals, and now my girlfriend is apparently breaking up with me. I'm locked into someone else's conception of who 'Gauvain de Courfeyrac' should be and I hate it and want to stab things."

"Setting fire to something might help," suggested Jehan. "But break free of your chains!"

"And break free of my family?" Courfeyrac shook his head. "I can't do that- to myself or them. Not after how my eldest brother died."

"Who, Yvain?" asked Joly.

Enjolras, walking in, looked at Courfeyrac and said, in his quiet way, "No. Courfeyrac, how can we help you?"

"I don't know if you can," said Courfeyrac, almost bitterly. "Not unless you tell me we are going to be ripping up paving stones and building giant furniture walls."

"The Prime Minister Casmir Perier has died of cholera," said Enjolras. "Louis-Philippe has seized the reins of government."

"So mixed news," said Courfeyrac, looking at his note again. "I have to go- number 4 Rue Plumet if you need me." He grabbed his coat and hat and ran out the door.

"What was that about?" asked Joly. "I thought that his eldest brother was the one with friends on the police force- did he get cholera?"

"His eldest brother died at Waterloo," said Enjolras, after a moment.

"I never knew that," said Combeferre, a little surprised.

Enjolras placed a hand on his shoulder in passing. "It was not my secret to share. It pains Courfeyrac more than he likes to admit. But come- the Prime Minister has died. What can we expect?"

"I hope it's revolution!" came Courfeyrac's voice from the hallway. 


	13. In which Cosette and Courfeyrac talk

Cosette had written out a little speech about her past and was practicing reciting it in the mirror. Her reflection no longer made her feel strangely disassociated, and the great storm of tears that had ensued when she pinned down her story behind black ink bars made her feel oddly better. Each time she read it out the iron chains around her heart seemed to loosen, the granite block pressing down upon her seemed to break a little more. She washed her face and dressed her hair for the first time in a week, threading a green velvet ribbon through her curls, and carefully pulled on the green dress she wore at Réveillon, when she had first begun to believe that her mother had loved her, and first suspected she might fall in love with Courfeyrac. She wanted to feel pretty and successful and confident-- all the things she had not felt since Eponine Thenardier reminded her that she had once been a slave.

She restlessly went through her writing desk and turned up one of the pamphlets that Courfeyrac had accidentally left behind when he fell through the roof of her father’s apartment. “Man is born free, but is everywhere in chains,” she read aloud. “So said the philosophe Rousseau, and so we here prove that all citizens are equal, and deserve to be equal before the law.” She skimmed through it. The fundamentals of liberty, equality and fraternity she understood, however imperfectly and couched in the religious philosophy of the convent, but it began to occur to her now, that what she had gone through oughtn’t to have happened.

She had been angry at having gone through it, she had been almost furious at the Thenardiers-- but there had been that lingering doubt that perhaps she had deserved it. It gradually began to dawn upon her that she hadn’t deserved it, because _no one_ deserved it. No one deserved to be condemned to those artificial hells, no one deserved to see their liberty so curtailed, no one deserved to be taught they were ugly and stupid and worthless. No one ought to be controlled through violence. All people were citizens with rights and freedoms, who should be valued and respected. Why, did she not see the same virtues and vices in the rich and the poor Faubourgs of Paris? She, too, was a citizen-- she was the equal of anyone.

The thought was a bright flare in the darkness, though self-doubt crowded in immediately afterwards. Perhaps she believed that-- that all were equal and therefore she was equal with everyone else-- but would anyone else?

Cosette had to avoid looking at her reflection again. She hadn’t seen Blanchefleur or any of her society acquaintances for a week. She had answered several kind, but slightly panicked notes inquiring if she had cholera and everyone, having ascertained that she was not about to die horribly, soon forgot about her. Cosette wondered if she really had to tell anyone at all. Everyone was comfortable with her particular role in society-- Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac’s intimate friend, who had been a charity boarder at a good convent, and who made for a safe dance partner-- pretty enough to do credit to any gentleman who sought her hand for a set, but not wealthy enough to threaten the equanimity of any of the ladies of the room. It was a position Cosette liked. She was not in the upper ranks of society, but she had people who habitually talked to her at card parties and people who habitually asked her to dance at balls.

Cosette sought at first to distract herself with books. Nowhere did she see in novels someone _like her,_ there was no mirror where she could look and recognize herself, and be reassured that others had gone what she had gone through and still find a place in the world. Most of her books were scattered about her room, half-paged through, before Cosette found _Ivanhoe_ again and read the ending with great attention. Rebecca, kind, intelligent, compassionate Rebecca, who could not join ordinary society, could find no place in it.

That was not terrifically reassuring.

Blanchefleur had sent over a parcel of what she termed ‘philosophical’ novels; Cosette skimmed through them in the hopes that ‘philosophical’ meant ‘revolutionary’ and she might thereby be reassured that however low she had fallen, she was still the equal of anyone else. As it turned out, ‘philosophical’ was closer to ‘pornographic.’ Cosette was not sure if she was more shocked by the explicit illustrations or the philosophical discussions of pleasure and the limitations of society. _Thérèse-philosophe_ did not precisely give her the reassurance she sought, but it did force her to question all the _idées reçus,_ she had been taught, and taught not to question, at the convent. One particular dialogue where Therese’s confessor preached reason in the pursuit of pleasure baffled Cosette entirely. No confessor or priest Cosette had ever known had taught her to think, just to repent.

But, thought Cosette, what did she have to repent of with the Thenardiers? She had done nothing wrong, she had wrong upon wrong done to her.  And yet that somehow marked _her_ as a scandalous other, and if the details were generally known, she might lose the position she had hitherto known in society. Life was horribly unfair. Cosette took her book out into the garden, where she used it to furiously de-leaf another bush. When she was calmer, Cosette finished the dialogue, where the priest demystified pleasure as a natural desire that had to be satisfied in a reasonable way, without hurting or upsetting anyone. He very explicitly told Therese that an illegitimate pregnancy (like Cosette was now vaguely sure she had been) would be distressing to Therese on a personal level, and would upset all those around her; therefore Therese had to preserve the societally valued illusion of virginity while still seeing to her own pleasure and avoiding the bad men of the world who did not care about the liberty of others. (The confessor then helpfully suggested, quite explicitly, what Therese could do instead.)

Cosette briefly wished her mother had read _Thérèse-philosophe._ Perhaps then Cosette wouldn’t have been born a bastard and turned into a slave, and perhaps then her mother would not have worked herself into sickness.

However, hers was a practical spirit and she hid the book under her bed before her father could read it and conclude that he was a bad man who did not care about the liberty of others. It comforted Cosette a little to know that even in the pursuit of pleasure, Enlightenment scholars had been skeptical of ideas valued merely because they had not been questioned, and had quite reasonably pointed out that even then, all one had to do was follow the letter of the unspoken law, not its meaning. Perhaps all the unspoken prohibitions against illegitimate children didn’t matter since her father obviously acknowledged her, and had something about a dowry? Or perhaps all society really needed to know that she was the daughter of a gardener who had once owned a factory in the north of France?

Besides, Cosette thought bitterly, her time with the Thenardiers had not left scars anyone else could see. If the philosophes were right and it was only the appearance of the thing that mattered in society, could she keep all that she had?

It occurred to her immediately that Courfeyrac would want to know the truth, and that it was impossible for her to hide anything from him. Though he certainly appeared to drift through life like one of the collegiate punters at Cambridge or Oxford that were forever popping up in English novels, he preferred to peer over the side of the metaphorical boat, looking for the gleamings beneath the surface, and promptly diving down to unfathomable depth to truly explore what interested him. And Cosette simply could not fathom keeping any secrets from him, when he never kept any secrets from her. One had to work for equality in the world, and she would preserve hers with Courfeyrac for as long as it was possible. She recited her speech to her kitten, who paid her the great compliment of immediately falling asleep. It was not precisely reassuring.

That evening when Cosette unlocked the gate, there was some hesitance between them. Courfeyrac moved to kiss her but checked himself and merely pressed her hand instead. Cosette wasn’t sure if she was relieved or unhappy he did not.

A little awkwardly, she said, “Thank you for the kitten-- I’ve named her Leopoldine. I wanted to name her Leonine, but I recalled that was the name of your brother Yvain’s little lion.”

“Ah... glad you like her.” Courfeyrac took his hat off.

Cosette closed the gate behind him and locked it. She shook the bars a little to make sure the lock held. “She’s lovely. It was-- it was really very kind of you. I appreciated it.”

After a moment, Courfeyrac turned around, took Cosette by the hand. “Are you ending things, Cosette? I have been happy-- more than happy-- these past few months. I had hoped....” He forced a smile. “Well, it is ultimately your decision.”

“I don’t want to,” said Cosette, clutching at her shawls. She had rehearsed her speech for hours, but now her mind felt blank, and panic seemed to grip at her with icy fingers. Cosette could not bear to lose his good opinion. “But I think perhaps if others knew--”

“To hell with what other people think,” Courfeyrac burst out, suddenly. “I don’t care-- that is I care about _you,_ I care about you alone and what makes you happy-- and I thought-- I had hoped I made you happy--”

“You did, you do!” Cosette cried, near tears suddenly. “It’s not-- it’s not that-- I just.” She pressed her cheek against her be-shawled shoulder. “You will despise me.”

“How could I ever despise you?” Courfeyrac exclaimed, checking a motion to take her in his arms. “Sweetheart--”

“Please, I just need....” Cosette took a deep, shuddering breath. “I-- I remembered my past. I forgot it for a reason.”

Courfeyrac had not been expecting that. The crickets and cicadas seemed to chirp at each other in ancient Greek. Leopoldine scratched at the back door and let out a piteous mew at being away from her caretaker. He sat down on the stone bench.

Very carefully, Cosette said, “When I was... two or three probably, my mother left me with an innkeeper and his wife, the Thenardiers. My mother paid them seven francs a month at first, then twelve, then fifteen, which she couldn’t afford-- she worked in a factory.” She hesitated at that confession. His mother had a comte de Provence as a great uncle; her mother had worked in a factory and probably never even knew who Cosette’s grandfather was. But Courfeyrac was looking at her with an expression of mingled affection and concern, so she pressed on. “She fell behind in her payments. She-- she got sick. Consumption, my father said. He owned the factory where she worked, making jet beads. So... the Thenardiers started--” She passed a shaking hand over her eyes. Why was this so hard to say?

“Cosette?” He extended a hand to her.

She took it, gratefully. She studied his hand in the moonlight, the fine tapering fingers, the lines of his palm. She traced them, wishing she was a gypsy, or at least someone entirely different. But if she had been someone else, would they ever have met? Would she have ever known what it was like to have a good friend, and to be in love? “I-- you must promise me not to interrupt. If I stop I won’t be able to finish.”

He squeezed her hand. “I promise.”

Cosette closed her eyes. “Madame Thenardier told me I had to earn my keep because my mother, the useless slut, had abandoned me. So, at five years old I became an unpaid maid-of-all-work, and if I couldn’t do all the work or if I couldn’t do it right-- or even if I just broke an egg-- Madame Thenardier would beat me.”

Courfeyrac’s hand tightened around hers, but he didn’t say anything.

“She liked to whip me, but she liked best to black my eye and then tell me how ugly I was, so that she could reassure her daughters of how beautiful they were. It was....” She felt herself start to cry. Cosette cleared her throat. She would get through this. Each time she spoke, the memories became less vivid, held less power. She would say it, she would get through it. “I had only an old chemise to wear, even in winter. I had only a lead sword as a toy, which I used to cut the heads off flies-- I was-- I was not a nice little girl. I was ugly and frightened all the time and not at all good at my chores.”

Cosette wiped the tears off her cheeks with her free hand. “Then my mother died. My father had been her employer, he felt bad and bought me off of the Thenardiers and then-- and then we went to the convent and we live as we do now because--” She stumbled a little in her speech “--because the adoption was not quite legal, I think my mother died before she could sign any papers or-- or, he never said this, but I think perhaps I am his natural daughter. Madame Thenardier used to say I was a bastard, perhaps she was right. But that is why I didn’t remember anything before the convent. I didn’t want to remember-- I only did because one of the Thenardier daughters, Eponine-- she was the other cat at Mardi Gras. She’d been stalking me-- I don’t precisely know what she intended to do. She is very poor now, I think she wanted someone to confirm that she wasn’t meant for the life she led. But that’s-- that’s what I remember, and that’s why I thought now you would despise me. My mother was a factory worker who might have had me out of wedlock and I was little better than a slave.”

Courfeyrac pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

Cosette blinked back her tears. “And so?”

“And so,” said Courfeyrac, “I say to you again, I could never despise you. I could never do anything but admire and love you.”

Cosette sank onto the bench and burst into tears of relief. Courfeyrac held her closely for a time, until her tears stopped, and then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stood to pace. His first impulse was to charge in and make everything better, to ride, full tilt at Cosette’s enemies, but what could one really do? The wounds were inflicted so long ago, the abuse of a child so horrible, so unjust, the wrong could never be corrected.  

Courfeyrac decapitated some daffodils instead.

It didn’t help much; he turned around and plopped down to sit at Cosette’s feet. “And-- and how are you now? How are you, sweetheart?”

After a pause, Cosette said, “Shaken, but not-- not broken.” She was clasping her shawl closed at her throat, and lowered a hand to brush Courfeyrac’s mussed curls off of his forehead. “It was-- it was hard, at first to live through it again, to remember all the... things that happened. What was worse was remembering how-- how I used to think. To make sense of it, of all the bad things happening to me, I used to think that I-- that I deserved it.”

“No one deserves it Cosette, least of all you.”

Cosette cupped his cheek in her hand. “It’s a hard thing to shake-- it happened for so long, and there was no proof that I was wrong until my father came and found me. My mother-- I never saw my mother again after she left me with the Thenardiers, and Madame Thenardier used to say such awful, awful things about my other, about how she was-- was poor and wasn’t worth much and that my mother probably had no idea who my father was-- and how she abandoned me.” Cosette had to pause there. Courfeyrac turned to press his lips to her palm. “And so I thought, well, my mother saw it too, saw that I was ugly and stupid and that there was-- there was something wrong with me, so she abandoned me. And Madame Thenardier obviously saw it, and so she beat me, and her children saw it, so they were cruel to me, and the whole town of Monfermiel saw it, so they never-- they never did anything when I was walking through the snow often without shoes and with only a ragged chemise. I was ugly and stupid and wrong and--”

“Darling, that’s a patent falsehood forced upon you by the Thenardiers,” said Courfeyrac, pressing closer. “Blanchefleur’s constantly saying that you’re far more clever than anyone gives you credit for, I would pick a duel with anyone who claimed to have a prettier mistress-- well, perhaps after a few glasses of punch--”

Cosette gave him a watery smile. “I don’t-- my father explained. My mother worked in his factory, making jet beads, but the Thenardiers kept trying to extort money from her, saying I was sick or eating too much or something, so my mother worked longer hours until she got sick-- and then she fell behind payments. She died of consumption when I was seven, somehow owing the Thenardiers thousands of francs. So she never meant to abandon me. It wasn’t that I was ugly and stupid and wrong-- though it’s-- it’s hard to shake sometimes-- it was that people can be very cruel and we were poor. My father felt very guilty about it-- and I think he was a little in love with my mother, she was very pretty, and I still think perhaps he is my natural father-- since he had money and no use for it. So he paid the hospital and the Thenardiers and adopted me. And so-- and so I was free of them. Or so I thought.”  

“Have you seen any of them besides the girl?”

“Eponine?” Cosette shook her head. “No, just her-- and I am glad I haven’t seen her again.”

Courfeyrac threw an arm over her knees and rested his chin on his forearm. “I wish there was something I could do-- hunt down Monsieur Thenardier and challenge him to pistols at dawn--”

“Oh please don’t,” Cosette pleaded, running a hand through his auburn hair. “I couldn’t bear to be without you-- not--” Her hand had stilled against his hair. “We have so little time as it is.”

Courfeyrac shifted so he could bury his head in her lap.

“So... you are going to England?”

“I can’t think of any way out of it-- not unless there is a revolution-- but Cosette, I am here for you whenever you need me.”

“Until September,” said Cosette, a little sadly.

Courfeyrac groaned into her lap. “It’s not something I’m willingly agreeing to-- my protests have fallen on deaf ears. I have serious moral objections to this post but since I follow politics, no one believes that I really believe in anything.”

“Then they don’t know you at all.” Cosette started stroking his hair again, as she would her kitten. He leaned into her touch too. “It’s strange, isn’t it-- how you can have this-- this conception of yourself that no one else sees.”

“You see me pretty clearly.”

She dropped a kiss on the top of his head in response.

Courfeyrac propped his chin on his forearm again. “And, darling, I see you just as clearly-- I see the frightened child you were and I see the strong-- incredibly strong, compassionate person you are now.”

This struck Cosette; she paused and said, almost to herself, “No-- I’m not that child anymore.” A light seemed to break through the darkness suddenly-- she was not that child, she was stronger now, she was safe and she was loved-- her past did not necessarily ruin her present. She was not entirely sure, however, if it would ruin her future. But she didn’t want the darkness to overwhelm her again; she concentrated on the present. And the present was lovely-- Courfeyrac was there, his head resting on her lap, her hand in his hair-- and she was loved. She had a father who went to enormous lengths to keep her safe, to administer to all her wants, to keep her comfortable, she had a comfortable home that was all hers, with locks on the windows and doors, and a good friend with whom she spent long hours reading and chatting and playing the piano forte. Her life was different now, better.

The shadows of her past could not block out the bright happiness of her present; she wouldn’t let them. It would perhaps be an uneven struggle (Cosette thought gloomily of the long periods of blackness where one had to fight for any light), but she had been happy once. She would be happy again. Whenever she had been the most unhappy, her father had taken her on charitable missions; in thinking of others and caring for them, she had begun to come out of that misery, to think she had something worth loving in her.

Courfeyrac was still sitting on the grass; Cosette took off one of her shawls. “Oh-- your trousers will be ruined.”

“I don’t care,” replied Courfeyrac, stoutly, if untruthfully.

“That’s a high sign of devotion,” said Cosette, laying the shawl on the ground.

“Now you cannot say I never offered you any proofs of love,” he replied. It came out more seriously than he intended, but as Cosette was smoothing out the folds of her shawl and thinking of other things, it went unnoticed.

Slowly, she said, “I know-- I _know_ that my mother didn’t abandon me-- she died, she never intended for what happened to me to happen. But it did happen. I know-- I _know_ that my mother loved me, I saw her letters-- she was so desperate to see me, she kept writing at first about how much she wished to bring me to where she worked-- but it is so very hard to shake this-- this very _irrational_ fear from childhood that-- that there is something wrong with me that makes me... unlovable.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “I love you.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, nor had he realized he meant it until he had said it.

Cosette sat heavily beside him on the shawl, her expression difficult to read in the moonlight. “Do you-- do you really?”

A little lightly he said, “I understand your disbelief. I could have said it a great deal better. I admire and love you most ardently-- or--” thinking of some of the stock phrases from the collection of beat-up novels that served as his library “--I lay my heart before you, as a gift. You may keep it or throw it away as you wish, but it is yours, and it is yours irrevocably.”

She released her anxious grip on her shawls for the first time since Courfeyrac had walked into the garden. They fell off her shoulders as she reached out to cup his face in her hands. Cosette studied him in the moonlight, with such muted hope, with such dawning joy that Courfeyrac could have sworn he saw the sun rising at ten-o-clock at night. “You _love_ me?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, pulling her to him, “I do. I love you-- and all your sweetness and good nature, and your willingness to laugh, and your compassion-- and yes all your suffering, too, because it made you the person who I love so very, very much.”

“But the circumstances of my childhood,” Cosette said uncertainly, almost formally, as if delivering part of a speech she had rehearsed, “Surely-- I am not the person I thought I was. I think I am stronger than I thought I was, but I am also-- there are things you cannot forget twice.” She was almost sitting in his lap; Cosette buried her face against his shoulder for a minute. Then she pushed herself back, to better look him in the eye. “Gauvain, you are-- I am happier with you than I have ever been. But you must see-- I’m not-- I’m not the person I presented myself to be. My mother worked in a factory. I was a maid-of-all-work when I was five. My father isn’t my father, he adopted me. And even then, he didn’t do it correctly.” Then, seeing his clearly nonplussed expression, Cosette added, “I told you last summer that I was one of the muddy ones. I think now-- now I’m lower than that.”

Courfeyrac ghosted his fingers across her cheek. “Cosette, darling-- I told you once before that it didn’t matter to me, and it still doesn’t, except that you are obviously hurting from it still, and I hate to see you in pain.”

Cosette struggled to convey to him the new horrors of her reality. “Gauvain-- all I am, all I was, that was a lie.”

“How so, my little lark? When I met you I knew you were raised by a gardener and you were a charity case at the convent. That’s all people will ask abou..”

“The-- the _depth_ of that poverty. That leaves a stain one can never wash out, does it not?”

“In that you have known great sadness and now hate to see others sad, I suppose so. Darling--” He took the unresisting Cosette in his arms, though she still hugged herself tightly and kept her head bowed. “Oh my sweetheart, I tell you again, _I don’t care._ You are my sister’s friend, a convent educated demoiselle with a father living off his income. That doesn’t change. I love _you_ not some conception of you and your social class and your wealth or whatever else.”

“Well then,” said Cosette, trying to fight out of the darkness pressing at her temples, limiting her horizons, “what do you-- what do you mean by ‘you’? Brown curls and blue eyes and--”

“Well yes,” replied Courfeyrac, “all that and everything behind them. I am perhaps too much of an idealistic Romantic, flinging out poetic terms to make a nicer reality, but I do believe I love your soul.”

Cosette kissed him for that, and kissed him passionately.

There are times when words no longer suffice as language, one needs action, the gradually built vocabulary of intimacy. When Cosette was more or less sitting on his lap her skirts hiked up, her hands tangled in his hair, Courfeyrac said, a little dazedly, “Well, I suppose that pleased you.”

“Mm hm.” She tugged at his hair to kiss him again. Then, rather determinedly, she said, “I think-- that is-- I’ve read....” Her hair had fallen out of its pins during all the kissing, and she blew a strand of brown hair out of her eyes. “I read _Thérèse-philosophe_ this afternoon. There are... things one can do that are pleasurable and-- and safe, are there not?”

“Many things, yes,” said Courfeyrac, a little shocked.

Cosette smiled. “Good. I really need something pleasurable and safe.”

“You read _Thérèse-philosophe_? It’s...” He struggled for words.

“Instructional,” said Cosette, moving his hand from her waist to her thigh, above her garter.

Courfeyrac could not particularly say he minded. He had always argued that the right to pleasure was as inviolable as the right to a trial by a jury of one’s peers and he had certainly pursued pleasure with all the energy of his ardent and passionate nature. The particular skillset he had gained from the generous tutelage of the experienced ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germaine had always served him in good stead and, soon enough, Cosette gasped his name oh so very sweetly, and trembled against him.

She draped herself over him in boneless contentment. Courfeyrac kissed her forehead. “Hm?”

“Oh I liked that,” said Cosette. “Shall I do something for you? I want us to be equal.”

“You don’t need to, sweetheart.”

“I want to, though.”

Half his pleasure was always in seeing to his partner’s, so within a few minutes they were both in the state of languorous contentment they had really needed  after the events of the past week.  Cosette sleepily shifted in his arms and abruptly ended this state by accidentally bring her knee up between his legs.

Courfeyrac let out a little hiss of pain, but manfully did not cry out.

“I am so sorry!” Cosette exclaimed, awakened at once from her cozy, half-dozing sense of well-being.

“Sensitive area, there,” said Courfeyrac. “On the bright side, now you know what to do if some man is ever causing you trouble. I guarantee you that if you purposefully knee a man in the groin, he will not be bothering you for some time.”

Cosette’s hair had fallen out of its pins and ribbons; wishing to make some reparation for the unintentional injury, she pulled the green ribbon from her hair and helplessly tied it in a bow around Courfeyrac’s wrist. “Um... will you accept this in lieu of a better apology gift?”

Courfeyrac thought briefly of asking Cosette to kiss the injury to make it better, but fortunately thought better of it. Cosette now had a very good way of punishing him for any outraged sensibilities. “Of course. And....”

“And?” she asked, a little curiously.

He hesitated a moment, thinking of Casmir Perier, of the uninterrupted riots all across France for the past two years. “There is a chance, you know, that we could happy.”

“For a little while at least,” said Cosette, kissing him.

‘Or longer,’ thought Courfeyrac, thinking of Casmir Perier, but Cosette was warm and willing in his arms, and he momentarily gave up thinking of Casmir Perier for the more pleasant thought of Cosette. 


	14. In which there is a secret passage

A/N: I entirely made up when Courfeyrac takes his exams, based on the reasoning that it was around May or June that Courfeyrac remarks that he sees Marius's coat and hat in the Luxembourg with Marius in them, and supposes Marius is going to take an exam. June obviously doesn't work for the purposes of the plot, so May it is.

* * *

"Oh, you do look a sight," Blanchefleur said, sympathetically, when she paid Cosette a visit the next day. "I am glad you are well enough to be out in the sun, you look like you need it! Poor thing, you aren't entirely over it all yet, are you?"

Cosette had thought she was doing well, all things considered, but a glance at her reflection in the still water of the bird bath seemed to prove Blanchefleur right. Cosette looked (and felt) exhausted, though the previous night she had stayed up for much happier reasons than usual. "I really am doing much better. I have been a little sad recently-" then, catching herself "-but that's a result of being ill when it's nice out."

"It's a good thing I am here to cheer you up," Blanchefleur continued on, depositing her basket on a corner of Cosette's old shawl. " _And_ that your father is not dragging you about with him on all his charity missions, it would be too awful if you recovered from a cold only to catch cholera. I brought all manner of good things for you, calissons- have you ever had them? Yvain brought them back with him from the South, when he was visiting our parents."

"No, but they look lovely," said Cosette, sorting through the basket. "Ooh, and lavender honey, how wonderful. Oh, oh did you know your brother sent me a kitten? Gauvain is the kindest person alive, he is always so thoughtful and generous-hearted."

Blanchefleur allowed that perhaps Gauvain did have his good qualities after all, as they spent half-an-hour dangling ribbons in front of the kitten, carrying the kitten around the garden so that it could sniff at the flowers and try (and fail) to climb up trees after birds, and letting the kitten curl up into a purring ball of fur on the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Feeling she now had to surpass the bar set by the gift of a kitten, Blanchefleur said, "After staying in bed feeling sorry for yourself, it's always nice to have an adventure- are there any secret passage or hidden closets filled with old correspondence around here? I spent the week looking around the baron's house but all I found was Laudine's hidden collection of philosophical books. Did you like the one I sent you?"

"It was... um, enlightening."

"Horribly filthy, too," agreed Blanchefleur, quite happily. "Well, do you think there's a hidden passage or something in your house?"

"Here?" asked Cosette, nibbling on a calisson. "I shouldn't think so, I have a very ordinary house." But still, she allowed Blanchefleur to drag her all around the house, poking at plaster mouldings, and peering into closets. They stomped on the cobblestones in the courtyard to see if there were any hidden cellars, and rapped on the sides of the main building to see if there were any hidden rooms (Toussaint stared at them through the kitchen window when they were doing that, but apparently decided seeing her mistress run around the grounds hitting things was better than seeing her cry over the pianoforte all day, and went back to her dishes.)

Cosette was clearing some ivy off the wall when Blanchefleur said, "Oh hello, what's this?"

Cosette turned to look at what to her seemed to be a perfectly normal knot of wood on the side of her father's shack. "Something that needs to be painted over again?"

"Or," said Blanchefleur, melodramatically, "a secret spring that will lead to a secret door!"

"I don't think so," said Cosette, but Blanchefleur pressed it and, much to Cosette's surprise, part of the back wall bordering the house and garden swung open.

They stared at the passageway beyond, which was paved, with walls on both sides, and a narrow blue sliver of sky above it.

"I really hadn't expected to be right," said Blanchefleur.

"No, I hadn't expected that either," agreed Cosette.

"Still," said Blanchefleur, peering into the secret passageway, "we  _were_ looking for an adventure. It seems... rude, almost, not to take one when it just pops up in front of you."

Cosette was suddenly, instinctively afraid of the outside world where the Thenardiers lurked, but she just as quickly grew annoyed with herself. "How did this come to be? The house and everything can't be more than a hundred years old, at most."

"People a hundred years ago had just as much reason to build secret passages as much as people five hundred years ago," said Blanchefleur. "But I do know what you mean, it is rather lowering to discover a secret passageway that could not  _possibly_ have been built by plotting Medicis.  _But,_ if we follow the passage to the end, we can at least make a more reasonable guess as to its purpose. Oh do let's, you can still see the sky and everything, you have no reason to be in the least nervous or claustrophobic."

Cosette forced herself to walk through the door, though once through she faltered a little, turned to Blanchefleur and said, "You should go first- you found the passageway, it is only fair."

Blanchefleur had secretly been hoping she could lead the way, though she was too well-bred to try and take over an adventure on someone else's property. She walked down the passage with scarcely suppressed energy, peering at any misplaced stone, or bit of brick poking out from behind the white-wash. At one point she convinced Cosette to help her half-climb up one of the walls to see over it. "There seem to market gardens and orchards all around—there are fences everywhere, these must be individual parcels of land. And to think, no one but us two know that this isn't a solid wall, but a passage! Well us and the birds."

"I suppose all the linnets and sparrows a century ago had a lot to gossip about," replied Cosette. "If they're all individual parcels of land, then this must have been very purposefully built."

Blanchefleur turned the corner to discover a door. She pulled on it, then pushed at it to no avail. "And there's an end to it. The door's locked."

Cosette sorted through the key ring at her waist to see if there was one that ought to fit in the lock; she tried several likely-looking keys and, much to her surprise, the third key caused the lock to click. Blanchefleur pushed the door open.

"It is the Rue de Babylone!" Blanchefleur exclaimed, looking around. "What an impossible feat of geography- it's almost as if one has traversed the sewers to have the streets connected like this."

"Why should anyone want a secret passage to the Rue de Babylone?" asked Cosette, forcing herself to go to the door and look around. "There aren't any governmental buildings around here, or palaces or anything."

"Maybe it wasn't  _political_ intrigue," suggested Blanchefleur, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Your head's been turned by all your sister's filthy novels," Cosette replied, trying for the repressive accents of Mother Immaculate Conception.

Blanchefleur snorted. "Not likely! We're a worldly bunch, we de Courfeyracs, I knew how the world worked even before I found Laudine's secret library."

"Maybe it was Freemasons?"

"Freemasons can't be behind  _everything,_ no matter what the feuillitons say."

"Well there are bound to be other secret societies that put a great deal of care planning secret passages to the Rue de Babylone."

"And then they... just ran out of funds and turned their meeting place into someone's house? No, I think someone important built a house for his mistress and didn't want to be seen coming to the front door."

"Well, we shall see who owned the house before, there can't have been too many owners before my father."

Toussaint provided clarity by monologuing for half an hour on the previous owners of the house. It had originally been built by a judge in the King's Parliament and, Toussaint darkly concluded, there must have been illicit goings on if there was a secret passage all the way to the Rue de Babylone.

Blanchefleur was delighted.

Later that afternoon, Cosette consulted her now battered copy of  _Therese-Philosophe_ and decided that not only was Toussaint right, but that if the secret passage had been intended for illicit goings on, there wasn't any reason why she couldn't use it for the purposes for which it had been built. Gavroche had quite reasonably surmised that the young lady in the Rue Plumet would probably have another letter the next afternoon; this he delivered to Courfeyrac, who, once again in an ebullient mood, had spent the rest of the night cramming for his exam, and then passed it quite easily that day. He was eager to see Cosette again, and to entirely forget everything he had memorized the night before.

He was, however, a little puzzled as to why Cosette had asked him to come to the Rue de Babylone after dark, but he faithfully reported there, and went to a long wall Cosette had, for some reason, singled out as their rendez-vous.

"Boo," said Cosette.

Courfeyrac dropped his hat in surprise. He turned around to see Cosette coming out of the shadows. She burst out laughing and flung her arms around his neck. "Did I frighten you?"

"Horribly," Courfeyrac replied, putting his arms around her waist. "How did you sneak out? I could have come to the garden again."

"I intend you to," Cosette said, beaming, "Blanchefleur and I discovered a secret passage from my courtyard to the Rue de Babylone. Toussaint said some judge in the King's Parliament built the house, so he was either housing a mistress there or plotting against the government. Blanchefleur thought it was the mistress, I still think he was conspiring with Freemasons or plotting to overthrow the government during the Fronde. Though now that I think about it, the Fronde is a century too early. Oh well."

Courfeyrac pulled her into a shadow and kissed her to console her. "It was a good guess all the same. Where is the door?"

"Here." She released him to pull on a section of a wall, half-hidden by ivy. Courfeyrac could dimly see a narrow passageway. Cosette picked up a lantern she had left inside the door and unshuttered it. Courfeyrac examined the walls, the open sky above, now elaborately spangled with stars, the cunningly disguised door.

"I think I shall have to side with Blanchefleur on this one, sweetheart," said Courfeyrac. "This was a passage made to hide amorous encounters."

"Is it?" asked Cosette, far too innocently.

Courfeyrac laughed. "Did you suggest the Fronde at first just to please me?"

"No, I did think it was some passage built for political purposes- I get the political and the personal so mixed up these days."

"I see I have been a terrible influence on you."

He continued to be a terrible influence all the way down the passage, at one point holding them up for a good (but extremely pleasant) fifteen minutes. They emerged somewhat bedraggled from the passage; Courfeyrac had lost his hat somewhere (but assumed he'd find it on his way out) and Cosette's dress had been rather untidily rebuttoned, and her hair oddly pinned up again. However, there was no one to notice them in the courtyard, and once they snuck into Cosette's bedroom none of that really mattered at all.

When they had thoroughly exhausted themselves, Cosette, wearing only her shift, curled against Courfeyrac's side. He absent-mindedly wound a strand of brown hair through his fingers.

"How was your day?" Cosette asked, a little sleepily. "I forgot to ask earlier, I was so excited about the passage."

"Right now it's astonishingly good," he replied. "Before that I had to sit my exams, which was... annoying, since I couldn't make up my mind whether or not to fail them."

"Did you?"

"No, I didn't want to have to sit them again. They are painfully dull. Besides which..." He hesitated and said, "You did read about Casimir Perier?"

"Oh yes, the poor man died of cholera." Cosette shivered a little. Courfeyrac used it as an excuse to nearly pull her on top of him, muttering something vague about body heat. "It's so dreadful to think one is living through a plague. One can't even really do anything to help the poor, who are the most affected by it, because as soon as one walks into the miasmas in the poorer quarters one breathes in the disease and dies horribly. At least, that's what Toussaint says. She likes to exaggerate, but I'm sure it is really very easy to get struck down by cholera."

"So Combeferre says. My friend Joly- he's the one who helped me with your father in February- nearly got chased out of a poorer area of Paris since there's half-a-dozen theories floating about that the doctors are instruments of the government killing off the workers so that they don't revolt like the silk workers in Lyons."

Cosette folded her hands on his chest and rested her chin on her hands. "Toussaint is sure that the government is poisoning the wells instead of bribing the doctors."

"I would love to hear all of Toussaint's theories, some day," said Courfeyrac.

"You wouldn't, according to her danger lurks everywhere. For someone so concerned about avoiding violence and horrible ways of dying and all, she certainly likes to think about it for ages. Oh, but I got distracted. What does Casimir Perier have to do with anything?"

"The death of a public figure is always a good excuse for a political statement. I suppose you were still in the convent for the riot that broke out in '27 for Jacques Manuel, but there was one in 1830 for Benjamin Constant. I'm not sure Casimir Perier will be that public figure, but he may be the start of the process."

"The process?"

"Of revolution."

Cosette pushed her loose hair behind her shoulder and sat up. "I'm not quite sure I follow-I was taught housekeeping at school, not the process of revolution."

Courfeyrac absent-mindedly looped his arms around her waist. "It isn't all that complicated, really, there seems to me to be a standard narrative of events. Every unjust government stumbles somehow- I did genuinely want to like Louis-Philippe, he seems like a decent sort, but it only proves that no man can reign innocently. All the reforms we were fighting for in 1830 never managed to carry through- freedom of assembly, no, you're only allowed to meet in groups of twenty people at most. Freedom of the press, no, there are still censors. Freedom of protest, no, fifteen students waited in solitary for  _months_ before they even came to trial in February. So those who took to the barricades two years ago didn't get what they were willing to die for. That's the first step on the road to revolution."

"Nice alliteration," Cosette observed.

Courfeyrac smiled. "Thank you, I was pleased with it. Then we go on to see that all the other political groups are equally unhappy. February was an unhappy month for everyone, Blanqui and a number of other republican students  _finally_ went to trial and basically ranted about the government the entire time, and then just went back to prison, and then the supporters of the Bourbons tried and failed to kidnap the royal family. And you know the Bonapartists, they get frustrated if they aren't at war with  _somebody._ The cholera epidemic is getting everyone antsy- every group has supporters who think the government's to blame for cholera, on top of everything else. I've talked to my friend Enjolras- do you remember him? I introduced him once in the Luxembourg, he's the blond."

Cosette tilted her head to the side, considering. "Oh! The  _blond._ He had a very otherworldly look about him."

"That's the one," Courfeyrac replied, quite pleased. "Enjolras is of the opinion that if it's not Perier, it will be someone else. Too many people were already angry, now they are growing frustrated. We'll have a revolution by... July at the latest. So, to finish up my point, I took my exams to free my schedule for revolution." He smiled ruefully at her. "One thing I have noticed, Parisians prefer a riot when it's nice out. July is always a good month for revolutions."

"That seems perfectly sensible to me, you can stay out of doors far longer, and there is less chance of rain or snow spoiling your gunpowder."

Courfeyrac stared up at her worshipfully. "How I have ever found someone as perfect for me as you-"

Cosette laughed. "You ridiculous flatterer, you are only saying that because I found that secret passage and snuck you into my bedroom."

"No, I say it because I think we have the similar, rather practical minds, similar temperaments, similar enjoyments- shall I go on? You blush so delightfully that I am very tempted-"

She kissed him more-or-less to shut him up, but Cosette was still very pleased with the compliments. She did carry the day, however; they did not much speak for the rest of the evening. Courfeyrac could not have been happier.

Courfeyrac was cheerful once again, to the extent that most of his friends expected that he would leave their company after nightfall, and disappear until the next morning. As Bossuet pointed out, there was no other reason why Courfeyrac could be cheerful. He was taking his exams, he wasn't speaking to his family, he was half-way bullied into a position that was anathema to him, and Marius was still living with him. And, as Bahorel pointed out, Courfeyrac was now always playing with a green hair ribbon when at meetings, evidence which would satisfy even the most stringent scientist. (At this point, the exhausted Combeferre would usually snap that they did not have a rational understanding of the scientific method and the conversation would shift to Perier's funeral).

The funeral itself was tense, but not revolutionary. Perier had often depicted himself as in a great struggle against the demands of the other ministers and the demands of the king himself, but was hardly a republican. And anyways, the king was still away from Paris, touring various provinces where there had been both absolute monarchist uprisings and Republican demonstrations. The day was not a total loss, despite the long, dull and ornate state funeral. Jehan recited his newest poem, which was rife with gruesome metaphors and very violent classical allusion. It was supposedly an account of the Grenoble Mardi Gras, where someone had come as a hairy pear (an accurate representation of Louis-Philippe's head shape) and caused a riot that ended with the 35th and then the 6th regiment invading, and the Grenoble National Guard's disbandment. A little more practically, Bahorel had met with some friends of theirs from Lyons and Grenoble to confirm that the revolutionary sentiment outside of Paris was just as fiery.

"It did, however, greatly disappoint Combeferre that there were only vague murmurings, since he came with almost his entire arsenal," said Courfeyrac, the evening after the funeral. He had his head pillowed in Cosette's lap as she re-braided her hair. It was extremely tempting to try and bat at the dangling ends of her hair, but she had put her kitten in the hallway for the same offense and Courfeyrac always disliked having to leave Cosette's room. "But it was all for the best- he went home and immediately fell asleep. Poor man, the cholera epidemic seems likely to kill him one way or another."

Cosette looked down at him fondly. "What a great deal of nonsense you talk about very serious subjects. You have me half convinced there is no better way to talk about serious subjects."

"I knew I should corrupt you to my way of thinking sooner or later."

Cosette stifled a laugh. "I think you have corrupted me quite enough for one evening. Are you all done with your exams now?"

"Yes, I am technically a lawyer."

"Bravo," said Cosette, bending to kiss his forehead.

It took a great deal of courage for him to look up at her smiling face and say, "Cosette- I don't suppose you've given any more thought to the future?"

"I know I shall be happy until September," Cosette said, firmly, as if trying to convince herself. "That's more than most people get."

"Say there is another revolution," Courfeyrac said, toying with the end of her completed braid. "What then?"

Cosette contemplated this. "Then I suppose we will have longer to be happy."

It was unlike him to be hesitant, but he said, a little uncertainly, "Do you think perhaps... well, in a few years or so- that is- I am being horrifically ineloquent."

Cosette tilted her head to the side. "What are you trying to ask?"

"Do you think you could ever...  _love_ me?"

Cosette stared at him and then, blushing, said, "Oh you ridiculous- of course I could."

He seized her and kissed her mercilessly, unable to express his joy otherwise. She clung to his neck, accepting the rain of kisses with just as much pleasure as he took in giving them, stopping him only to say, in between kisses, "I only- that is I have not let myself- I resolved to try and be-be strong and not ask for anything, um... unreasonable."

"No?" Courfeyrac could not help but pepper her face with kisses. "How can it be unreasonable? You know I love you, and love you to distraction."

"Well yes," Cosette said, practically, "but when a man says 'I love you' he provokes no censure or expectation of anything, but when a woman says it, it... I don't know, it always smacks to me of marriage and I know that's impossible."

Courfeyrac pulled back a little. "Impossible? Of course not. In that we are possibly too young to be married,  _perhaps_. But to be quite honest, Cosette, I cannot imagine a happy future without you in it."

"Of course it's impossible," said Cosette, her smile melancholy. "I'm the bastard daughter of a factory owner-"

"-who acknowledges you and promised you a dowry-"

"-who then worked as a gardener at a convent-"

"-where you and most accomplished ladies of the Parisian elite were educated." Courfeyrac kissed her. " _That_ will satisfy my parents, and you must be quite aware at this moment of how you satisfy me-"

"You can be so wicked!" Cosette exclaimed, feigning offense and attempting to wriggle out of his arms. She did not try particularly hard, Courfeyrac only ended up pulling her closer. "But what are you asking? For me to wait for you while you're in England?"

"Possibly. But I may not go to England."

Cosette had to crane her neck at an awkward angle to look him in the eyes. "What can you mean? That is, you keep talking of revolution, but do you really think-"

Courfeyrac kissed her temple. "It's another 1830, sweetheart. Or will be. I think."

Cosette leaned her head against his shoulder to contemplate this. "Well then, I would certainly wait for you for however long is necessary."

"... I'll take it."

"I know it's not precisely what you wanted to hear," said Cosette, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, "but we still are very young and I still think your parents may not like my history."

"They will like your dowry enough to forgive any past irregularities in upbringing," Courfeyrac replied, with brutal honesty. "Most of their wealth is in land, not ready money. I hate to be mercenary when I've got you in my arms and you've got me in your bed, but do you have any idea if your father was at all successful at his trade?"

"At least moderately so, I think. We've never wanted for money and Papa is forever distributing alms- and the dresses he lets me get are often quite expensive, but he never seems bothered by the bill."

"So there you have it, half our problems solved. I dislike the idea of being across the English Channel from you, but I daresay I could get permission to write you, at the very least- and, you know, I am starting to think there is a very real possibility I won't go to England at all."

The next day's tidings only cemented this idea for Courfeyrac: General Lamarque had finally been conquered not by another army, but by cholera. It was not supposed to be a severe case, and, as all of Lamarque's partisans claimed, the general was too strong to be taken down only by a trifling  _disease_. There had been some cases of recovery (though no one knew why) and though General Lamaque was no longer young, he was so well loved that people were unjustifiably sanguine.

Lamarque had often been a rallying cry for protesters of all classes. He was a straightforward liberal, concerning himself more with agricultural innovations than power struggles, who supported the defense of Poland and Italy, who wrote in support of various liberal causes, and whose capacity for grief over Waterloo had known no limits. His straightforward hate for Wellington pleased nearly everybody. Those who also hated Wellington, or those who had lost their hopes at Waterloo, could sympathize. Those who were indifferent to Wellington could understand a general's displeasure over being defeated on the field of battle. Those who liked Wellington, like a number of the Anglophiles who had come to power after the 1830 revolution, could content themselves knowing that they could always turn Lamarque off of their wrong-doing by pointing him at Wellington instead. There were some hopes that Lamarque, one of the few liberals in Louis-Philippe's cabinet, would only agree to his forced sick leave if he was first allowed to give a ringing denunciation of the regime that kept slowly and subtly demoting him (or, as Feuilly hoped, allowed to publish a really vicious article about the partition of Poland).

Courfeyrac was thus in a surprisingly good mood when he met Cosette in the Rue de Babylone that evening, and swung her in a dizzy circle when she rushed into his arms. "Hello sweetheart, did you miss me?"

Cosette hung about his neck like ivy twining its way around a column. "Desperately."

Courfeyrac kissed her beaming, upturned face. No man, he thought to himself, could have resisted.

Still, he ought to have recalled he was kissing a girl in public- he heard footsteps and broke away hastily. Cosette looked up at him, a little disappointed, before seeing something behind his shoulder and gasping.

Courfeyrac instinctively turned around and nudged Cosette behind him; he saw a gaunt figure in an ugly schoolgirl's dress.

"Eponine!" gasped Cosette, trembling.

Courfeyrac felt an unconquerable surge of anger. "Haven't you injured an innocent lady quite enough?"

Eponine looked as if she were about to say something, but then squinted at them instead.

"What do you want?" asked Cosette, gripping Courfeyrac's arm with almost painful intensity. Then, almost unconsciously, sounding half-distracted, she muttered, "And I was doing so much better!"

"You can have nothing further to say to Mademoiselle Fauchlevent," Courfeyrac nearly snapped. "And if you were your father's son instead of his daughter, I would have demanded you to name your second."

Eponine let out a hoarse laugh. "Never you mind, I seen all I wanted to see. Go ahead and take your walks in the Luxembourg, Lark, you won't be bothered by me no more. I see you ain't a bit better than your mother-"

"You have some nerve," Courfeyrac interrupted, "talking like that to the woman whom I plan to make my wife."

"Do you really?" asked Cosette, sounding a little more startled than he would have liked.

Courfeyrac turned his head to look at her. "We did discuss this last night- at least, I was under the impression we did-"

"I didn't think it meant 'immediately.'"

"... well no, not immediately, but I  _had_ hoped I had implied 'eventually' clearly enough. We ought to save this discussion for when you are not being blackmailed by-"

But Eponine had vanished.

In the Luxembourg the next day, Cosette and Courfeyrac met a little cautiously- not only because Cosette was walking with Blanchefleur, but also because they were both looking out for Eponine. Cosette had passed her first uneasy night with Courfeyrac present. But, with her idiosyncratic mixture of bravery and practicality, Cosette had decided that if Eponine had specifically mentioned the Jardin de Luxembourg, she would go. She would rather face any terrors head on than to wait anxiously for them to spring upon her.

Courfeyrac had cautiously agreed, though he argued that perhaps she ought to wait, since her father was away from home for the first time in months, on his usual three-day trip.

The walk turned out to be largely uneventful. Blanchefleur provoked one of the swans in the fountain into snapping at her, and Cosette was badly startled by a few ugly dresses, but that was really it. Courfeyrac began to relax and found it in himself to be cheerful again and wave his hat at Marius, who was wandering around the alleys with a sort of wild determination.

Marius glanced at him, turned to walk the other way, and then abruptly turned back to face Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac had given up trying to explain Marius's conduct any more and so merely said, "Hallo Marius. It's a pleasure to see you going about in daylight. Did you lose something?"

Marius chose to stare at Cosette instead of answering Courfeyrac's question.

Cosette smiled uncertainly. She was sure she had seen Marius before, though she could not place him immediately.

"I suppose this is your roommate the poet," Blanchefleur said, a little doubtfully, eying Marius's old green coat (which she could have sworn she saw Gauvain wearing two years ago) and his dirty boots and graying trousers.

"Yes indeed- Marius, I have the very great pleasure of introducing you to my sister, Mademoiselle Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac and her intimate friend, the lovely Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchlevent."

The two ladies curtsied.

Marius stared at them.

And continued to stare.

After a moment, Courfeyrac said, "Well, pleasant running into you as ever, Marius."

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle- what is your name?" Marius asked, still staring at Cosette.

"Fauchlevant," said Cosette, with another uncertain smile.

"Is your first name Ursula?" Marius demanded.

"No, it is Cosette- that is, my real name is Euphrasie, but I was nicknamed Cosette so young, that is what I respond to- Cosette."

" _Not_ Ursula."

"Ah, no?"

"Do you not recognize me, Mademoiselle?"

Cosette was now deeply uncomfortable; Marius had been staring at her almost unblinkingly since they were introduced. "I—I am sure I have seen you somewhere before." She looked around the alleyway to try and avoid his gaze and then said, "Oh! You used to walk in the Luxembourg, too, I think. I used to see you walking in this alley all the time. It's nice to speak with you finally."

Marius had a look of almost inappropriate joy. "Oh yes—Mademoiselle, it is beyond pleasant to hear your voice—to address you, finally. I have addressed you so many times in my dreams."

This was pleasant enough, but not precisely something one wishes to hear while walking with the man one hoped to marry. Cosette had almost entirely forgotten about the melancholy student in the Luxembourg. She felt incredibly awkward.

Cosette turned to Blanchefleur, tugged her back a little, cupped her hands around Blanchefleur's ear and hissed, "This is the fellow who kept staring at me two springs ago!"

Blanchefleur snorted and replied, sotto voce, "Good God, what were you thinking?"

"I don't know, I was sixteen!"

"He looks homeless."

"He has a home, he's living with your brother."

Blanchefleur stared at him then turned to Cosette and said, "Well, he is handsome, I suppose… your life is always so complicated." Blanchefleur then gave up the effort of keeping a straight face. "Oh God, you're like Manon Lescaut! Two lovers, ready to stab each other for you!"

Cosette was very surprised at this picture of herself and began to laugh.

Courfeyrac had been entirely bewildered by this and, though technically pleased that everyone could appreciate the wonders of Cosette, was not thrilled his roommate was a) trying to flirt with her and b) doing it so awkwardly. He tore his attention away from where Cosette and Blanchefleur were whispering to each other and said, "Um… do you know Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, Marius? You know, the girl I've been raving about for nearly a year?"

Marius had been watching Blanchefleur and Cosette's conversation with worry, and had jumped at the sound of Blanchefleur's laugh. He now turned to Courfeyrac without actually appearing to have heard a word he said.

"Are you alright?" asked Courfeyrac, alarmed by Marius's paleness. "Not cholera?"

"No, no," said Marius, absently.

But then Blanchefleur cupped her hands around Cosette's ear and hissed something that made Cosette burst out laughing.

Marius visibly wilted.

"Oh, I am so sorry—Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac and I were just discussing literature," said Cosette, trying to keep a straight face. "I am sorry—it's just a sort of joke between us, you wouldn't understand."

Courfeyrac was by now having a miserable time. Everyone seemed to be in on the joke except him. "Wouldn't understand?"

"Not in the least," Cosette replied, taking his arm. Almost without thinking he put his free hand over Cosette's and gave her hand a reproachful squeeze. She looked up at him, still trying not to laugh. "No really, you might not think it's funny, Blanchefleur and I have just had our minds spoiled with novels."

This little intimacy was not lost upon Marius, who turned pale and said, in a shaking voice, "Can it be you do not remember, Mademoiselle- a dropped handkerchief?"

Cosette shared a very confused look with Courfeyrac.

"I... regret to say I have no idea what you are talking about."

Marius pulled out a much tattered handkerchief with a 'U.F.' embroidered in the corner.

Cosette shrunk a little behind Courfeyrac, since Marius was now brandishing the handkerchief at her as if he were a drunk matador. "Oh no, I recall now, you always liked to walk in the same alley that we did. I think you have my father's handkerchief, his first name is Ultime."

Marius stared at the handkerchief in disbelief.

Cosette tried to be polite about the whole affair. "Um. Well. I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. It's a pleasure to speak with you, Monsieur…?"

"Pontmercy," supplied Courfeyrac.

"Monsieur Pontmercy, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance—I don't think I've seen you in nearly a year, have I? My father and I stopped walking in the Luxembourg for a time." She smiled apologetically. "Really I—" She paled and clutched Courfeyrac's arm. "There, see, I knew Eponine would be here somewhere."

Eponine was hiding behind a row of hedges and not doing it particularly well.

"Who are you?" asked Blanchefleur, much confused.

Marius turned around and stared at Eponine. "Eponine—did you know?"

"Know what?" asked Courfeyrac, entirely confused.

Eponine instead laughed, loudly and harshly. "Looks like I still know more than you Lark!"

"You certainly know more than me," muttered the petulant Courfeyrac.


	15. In which someone has cholera

Eponine hummed to herself a little before saying, “Oh yes, Lark, I could say all manner of things about how the young man whose arm you’re holding’s been exploring your secret passages--”

“You have some nerve!” Cosette snapped. “Why are you being so spiteful and mean, I never did anything to you--” she cast a distracted glance over the rest of the assembly-- Courfeyrac looked furious, Blanchefleur looked amused by the innuendo, and Marius looked like he was about to faint-- “and-- and you know what you are insinuating is not only false, but _extremely_ rude.”

“What, Lark, my mentioning of secret passages that gentlemen love to explore--”

Cosette flushed with rage. “Ugh! Come with me, we’re going to sit down and have a conversation like rational people about why you are being so unpleasant. Blanchefleur, ask Gauvain to explain to you about Mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier, I will be right back.” Cosette grabbed Eponine by the arm and dragged her determinedly to a bench at the far end of the alley.

“Why are you following me like this?” Cosette hissed, dragging Eponine away. “What is it you _want_ from me? You’ve already seen me sobbing on the floor in my nightgown, unable to do anything but scream, what more can you want?” An unpleasant thought occurred to Cosette. More to hear herself contradicted than anything else, Cosette asked, “How much lower do you need to see me until you are satisfied?”

Eponine pulled back as if struck and then gave a hoarse laugh. “Well, Lark, took you long enough.”

Cosette stared at her a moment and then said, very slowly, “And by tearing me down, do you think you shall raise yourself up?” She didn’t wait for Eponine’s response, only the flash of recognition in Eponine’s eyes. “So because our situations are reversed, that gives you a right to be cruel?” asked Cosette, trembling with anger. “I was never cruel to you when we were children-- you were the one who always laughed at me for being ugly.”

“And now look at the two of us,” muttered Eponine, almost despairing.

“Ah,” said Cosette, “so youwanted to prove you were still better than me.”

“I _am_ better than you,” Eponine retorted, defensively. “Just-- just temporarily embarrassed, I wasn’t meant for this. You know I wasn’t. ”

“Oh how very silly-- if you had just been _nice_ to me, I would have given you a hand up. You wouldn’t have needed to trample me in the dirt so your boots wouldn’t get dirty.”

“I ain’t got any boots,” observed Eponine.

Cosette more-or-less flung herself onto a bench, a bad habit she had picked up from Courfeyrac. “Whose fault is that? I offered to get you some but then you made me start crying for two days straight.”

Eponine scowled. “It ain’t my fault you’re a regular fountain when you get the littlest bit upset.”

“I think I had some justification in being upset,” Cosette retorted.

Eponine glared at her. “What? If that ain’t the biggest load of nonsense--” She was so upset at this, she paced a moment and sang a snatch of a bawdy street ballad, and then, whirling on Cosette, Eponine demanded, fiercely, “What right have you got to be upset, eh Lark? You have a house and a garden and three or four gowns and you ain’t ever gone about sleeping under bridges where the world’s so cold and you’re so dizzy all the shadows of the buildings stretch and stretch until they’re all as tall as Notre Dame, and you want to fall, you really do, but you can’t because there’s your sister shivering-- ah where is she even, poor Azelma? Neither of us were born into this, we were educated, we ought to have been where you were and you ought to be where we are.” She broke off and sang to herself a dance hall tune: “J’ai faim, mon pere/ Pas de fricot/ J’ai froid, ma mere/ Pas de tricot.”

Cosette tried to interrupt, “I am very sorry--”

“I still go to the theatre,” Eponine said abruptly. “I still know how to read and how to write and still everyone loves _you._ ”

“ _You_ clearly don’t,” muttered Cosette.

“He never even looks at me, I’m good as you-- better! I wasn’t born for this, if anyone was, it was you-- bah!” Eponine turned, half-wild, on Cosette. “You had no right to cry, you never knew what it was to wear wooden shoes and to always be hungry--”

“Yes I do,” Cosette exclaimed. “You ninny, you said yourself our situations switched-- I _know_ what it is to be cold and hungry and unloved and so unhappy I wanted to die-- and I was five when all that happened to me.”

This stopped Eponine, whose wrath, having been interrupted, seemed to leak out of her.

Cosette crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. “I think I have a right to cry over the sort of... artificial hell I lived in.” Then, with a great effort of will, Cosette added, “And you have a right to cry over your situation too.”

Eponine clearly wanted to be angry, but she let out a wild laugh, collapsed on the ground and began to weep. Cosette dug her handkerchief (which was edged in lace-- really, how that Pontmercy fellow could have mistaken her father’s handkerchief for hers was a mystery) out of her reticule and gave it to Eponine. After a moment, she said, a little tersely, “Come now, please promise to stop being cruel to me and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“I don’t need your _pity,_ ” snarled Eponine, “I’m better than you. Was better.”

“But would you like my compassion?” asked Cosette, sounding more annoyed than compassionate. “Look, go after that young man, Pontlery, or whatever, it’s not my fault he seems to still like me. I haven’t seen him in a year-- though... no, I don’t suppose this is really about him at all, he was your excuse.” Cosette worried at her lower lip.  “I used to see it at the convent. I don’t know why that was, certain girls would just... attack each other to feel better about themselves. I mentioned it to Gauvain once and he said it was Caesar’s divide-and-conquer stratagem.”

Eponine did not appear to understand. “I’m better than you,” she said half-heartedly, as if trying to convince herself.

“Oh come now,” said Cosette, more out of continued irritation than ideals, “we’re _equals._ All men are, all women are. It’s just laws and society and all those sorts of groups that tell us otherwise and it gets shouted at us so much we start to believe it.”

But this seemed to suffice for Eponine, who blew her nose, loudly, into Cosette’s handkerchief.

“Er, no, keep that,” said Cosette, when Eponine tried to give it back. “Really, I mean it. Keep that. Look, let’s make a social contract. We’ll treat each other as equals-- you treat me with kindness, and I’ll treat you the same.”

Eponine nodded suddenly.

Cosette rose from the bench and said, “I’m still rather angry with you at the moment, so I’m going to go now. In a few days, I think, I’ll be calm enough to talk to you again, if you want to talk to me-- _nicely._ ”

Eponine didn’t meet her eyes, but didn’t keep Cosette from walking away.

While Cosette had been talking with Eponine, Blanchefleur had turned to her brother and said, “That random homeless person who seems to like tormenting Cosette _did_ just mean that secret passage from the Rue de Babylone, right?”

“Yes,” said Courfeyrac seizing on this with alacrity. “She did. That’s the only true meaning of Eponine’s insinuations. And, to explain, Eponine was the daughter of Cosette’s nurse when they were children, when Cosette was farmed out to the countryside, and now Eponine apparently cannot stand to see how far she has fallen and how high Cosette has risen. So she has to rely on unjust slander.”

Marius looked highly skeptical.

“No one seems to think I am capable of respecting a convent-raised girl’s virtue!” exclaimed Courfeyrac.

“No,” agreed Blanchefleur. “Did you?”

“Yes!”

Technically.

Blanchefleur considered this. “Well Cosette can be very determined about some things, I suppose she would very practically bring an end to anything she thought too improper-- Laudine taught me a trick where you can accidentally get a man to spill his drink all over himself and have to leave.”

“Ah, I recall that,” said Courfeyrac. “Laudine’s signature move to get rid of unwanted guests-- Cosette recently learned a more violent approach at my expense, but she gets her point across. Marius, you look like you are about to faint. Or be sick or something--”

Marius turned around and was violently sick in the bushes.

“Well Monsieur L’Abbé, are you really so conservative that my courtship of a girl whom I am eventually planning to marry has turned your stomach?”

“You’re planning to marry?” asked Blanchefleur, surprised.

“ _Eventually_.”

“I must say I am pleased to hear that,” Blanchefleur said. “I can go live with you and Cosette instead of having to hear Marie drive off yet _another_ governess. She’s been through five now and Laudine’s getting desperate. Laudine doesn’t want to leave Paris without someone to watch over Marie the whole trip down to Blois—oh hello, your roommate was just sick again.”

“Marius,” said Courfeyrac, suddenly frightened, “have you been walking in the Faubourg St. Michel to stare at cabbages again? The misamas there--”

Marius sank to the ground, clutching his torso.

“Good God, is it...?” Blanchefleur did not want to finish.

“Stay here with him for just a minute,” said Courfeyrac. “There’s bound to be a medical student at the Cafe Musain.”

But when he returned with Joly, who was sneezing in alarm, Marius was nowhere to be found.

“I think he really might have been sick,” said Blanchefleur, worriedly. “I tried to get him to stay but he started raving about _larks_ and staggered off.”

“There’s every chance it is _not_ cholera, but perhaps a migraine or some bad oysters,” said Joly. “Or perhaps a strain of influenza, or perhaps he had a concussion earlier, or perhaps he had this disease I was just reading about--” Joly continued on in this vein until Cosette came back over.

“All right, sweetheart?” asked Courfeyrac, in an undertone.

Cosette’s color was high and her eyes bright, but she nodded and said, “Yes, yes, it went better than expected.”

This was putting it very kindly. In truth, Cosette’s talk with Eponine had been one of the most exasperating experiences of Cosette’s life. She briefly related the reasons for her annoyance to Courfeyrac and Blanchefleur.

“I don’t suppose Manon Lescaut is an appropriate allusion now,” said Blanchefleur.

“It wasn’t to begin with,” replied Cosette.

“Was that what you were laughing about?” asked Courfeyrac, still a little petulant.

Blanchefleur looked heavenward. “I swear, sometimes I don’t think you kept growing past thirteen. I’m going to walk ten paces ahead, don’t abuse my trust.”

“I was just telling Blanchefleur, your roommate used to stare at me in the Luxembourg,” said Cosette. “I hadn’t thought of him in a year, and then Blanchefleur was being ridiculous so I laughed. I am sorry to have made him upset.”

“Gusts of wind make him upset,” replied Courfeyrac. “At least I know why he went walking in the Luxembourg with such regularity last year.”

Cosette peered up at him from under the brim of her bonnet. “You do realize I still like _you,_ don’t you?”

“Yes-- it would be quite unfair of me to be jealous considering my collection before meeting you.”

“Well, I assumed you had affairs all over the Faubourg St. Germain and the Latin Quarter,” Cosette said, reasonably. “Men are expected to.”

“I can’t see why then, it’s so completely unreasonable for women to have them too.”

Cosette smiled. “Oh, I do like you.”

“I’m always glad to hear it,” said Courfeyrac, making sure they were unobserved before kissing Cosette’s gloved hand. “If you still did like Marius I would bow out-- I’d be petulant about it, but I would do it--”

Cosette squeezed his hand. “Oh how silly everyone’s being today. I’m not-- I don’t think I can... say yet, what you really want to hear, but there’s no one in the world I would want to be with more than you. But do apologize again to your roommate for me, and say I wasn’t laughing at him, whenever he reappears again.”

Marius reappeared as Courfeyrac was changing for dinner.

“Well,” said Courfeyrac, imperturbable as ever, clad only in a clean shirt, “now that you’re here, you can tell me whether or not you think the biscuit or the beige hued trousers go best with my blue coat.”

“You are not wearing any trousers,” exclaimed Marius.

“Astute observation.”

In tones of mounting horror, Marius exclaimed again, “ _You are not wearing any trousers._ ”

“Hence my question,” said Courfeyrac. “I can see from your expression that you dislike both of my choices, but I think perhaps a checked pattern would be too daring. Ah, how good of you to remind me that my elder brother’s notions of dress are very formal, so I should attire myself respectably in black.”

Marius continued to stand in the open doorway.

“Perhaps,” said Courfeyrac, “you are particularly keen on awkward encounters today, but I am not very desirous of having the landlady walk by while I am not wearing any trousers. Would you be so good as to pick one side of the door, place yourself behind it, and then return said door to its original position?”

Marius stumbled backwards into the hallway and slammed the door shut. Courfeyrac could hear Marius running down the corridor. Then, ten minutes later, Marius sluggishly made his way back and cried, “Are you decent, Courfeyrac?”

“No, my morals are thoroughly corrupted, my sense of humor relies almost entirely on bad puns and sexual innuendos, and I am frequently obscene.”

In some exasperation, Marius demanded, “Are you fully clothed?”

“Save for my cravat, yes.”

Marius walked in on the much more welcome sight of Courfeyrac standing before the mirror above the fireplace, carefully winding a long strip of muslin around his neck.  Marius was pale and trembling, and stared at Courfeyrac’s reflection.

“Well this is a fun conversation,” said Courfeyrac, after unsuccessfully asking Marius about his health, the weather, the cholera epidemic, the death of Prime Minister Casmir Perier, and Hugo’s latest collection of poetry, _Les feuilles d’automne._

“That girl you were with today....”

Courfeyrac waited to see if any actual question was forthcoming, but Marius instead took a brief turn about the room, looking for all the world as if he had just been bitten by a vampire. His skin had almost a bluish tint to it. “Yes, the one I’ve been going on about for, oh, nearly a year? What about the enchanting creature who has burst into my life like the music of angels, and whom I’ve been courting for the past six months?” He caught Marius’s eye in the mirror and said, in a less joking manner, “Oh come now Marius, I was only teasing because you asked her name three or four times, and I’ve been telling you all about Cosette Fauchelevent for months now. If you were really in spirits too low for my news to penetrate the gloom of your mind, you have only to tell me so, and I will not tease you again. You seemed to know her, earlier today. Cosette mentioned you used to pass each other in the Luxembourg quite often.”

Marius ignored this. “You have been courting her for six months?”

“Well almost six months,” amended Courfeyrac, returning his attention to his cravat. “I asked her father if I could pay my addresses in February, but I have been told by nearly every member of my family that nothing will come out of it.” He shook his head, deranging the knot he had just tied. “That was almost bitter. I will find ways to work around it. It’s only a matter of waiting until I’ve obtained my majority--Augh! My cravat!” Courfeyrac gazed in horror at his reflection, tore off his cravat and pulled a new one out of a drawer.

Marius sank down upon a chair. “Since February?”

Courfeyrac turned to offer him a reassuring smile. “Come now, old fellow, I don’t blame you for not paying attention, it was around the time that your neighbors staged a robbery. You were considerably shaken.”

“When did you first meet her?” asked Marius, hollowly.

“Really, you mustn’t fall into a funk of self-recrimination on my account. I met her March of 1831-- funny story really, we accidentally blew up Paulier’s apartment, I ran over the rooftops to get back to my apartment, and accidentally fell through the roof of her building. I landed in her bed-- which was quite lucky as I not only made her acquaintance, I also did not die horribly of a broken back. I feel I should add she was not in her bed at the time.” Courfeyrac stepped back from the mirror to more critically examine his cravat. “Hm, one of my better efforts, I think.”

“And-- and do you love her?”

Courfeyrac hesitated. “Well... yes. I hope it doesn’t distress you too much. The whole situation is actually quite comic when one thinks about it-- of course, I never really desired to have you as a rival, you have such a melancholic air, one really cannot compete--”

Courfeyrac paused. Marius’s melancholic air was now closer to ‘sickly’ than ‘melancholic.’ Marius was as blank and pale as a piece of paper, waiting to be scribbled on.

“Are you alright? Marius, I really think you are ill--”

And Marius was. He was violently sick again into the wastebin.

“Marius, I really do think you might have cholera,” said Courfeyrac, a little too alarmed to try and make a joke out of it. “Lay down and I’ll fetch Joly or Combeferre.”

“I’m fine,” Marius insisted, before abruptly standing and rushing to the water closet at the end of the hall.

Courfeyrac scrambled into his coat and hat. Fifteen minutes later he returned with Joly, who needed all of two minutes to say, “Has Marius been out walking much? The air of Paris is so very bad....”

Courfeyrac had been leaning his arm against the mantle and now pressed his forehead to his sleeve. “So it is cholera.”

“Get your cleaning lady in, I have a theory that very harsh scents, like the smell of lye soap, completely dissipates the more dangerous miasmas.” Joly himself was pressing one of Musichetta’s perfumed handkerchiefs to his nose and mouth, looking anxious and very much in need of a drink. “Courfeyrac-- you know it gives me no pleasure to say this, but you... do realize that chances of recovery are very slim?”

“It does not give me any pleasure to hear it, either.” He felt oddly hollow.

Marius was returning from the water closet, looking exhausted.

Joly and Courfeyrac exchanged pained looks.

“Marius,” said Courfeyrac, as gently as he knew how. “Where does your grandfather live?”

“I shall have nothing to do with the old gentleman on the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6,” said Marius, a little deliriously. “My father died before the old gentleman let me see him, for that I shall never forgive him.”

“Don’t then refuse to see him until after you--” but Courfeyrac cut himself off and said merely, “I must go out, Joly will stay with you until I return.”

It was then about half-past five. As Courfeyrac lived in the Marais, it was not a long walk to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire and he found himself welcomed, in some surprise, by portly man-servant and a cook who did not appear to know her name.

“Nicolette, has Monsieur Gillenormand dined?” asked the man-servant. “ _Nicolette_. Bah, that is your name now, you must get used to it.”

“Oh, so it is,” said the cook, a little confused. “Well, I have cleared their dishes, Monsieur Gillenormand is in his library, Mademoiselle is in the salon.”

“Have you business with Monsieur Gillenormand, sir?” asked the man-servant, assuming a somber air.

“I suppose so, my tidings are hardly those of pleasure,” said Courfeyrac. Laudine had recently, very passive-aggressively sent him a package of gilt-edged calling cards declaring that he was Monsieur Gauvain de Courfeyrac, lawyer and political secretary. Courfeyrac was intensely annoyed to find these in an unopened packet in his coat pocket instead of his usual cards which were unadorned by particle or profession. But still he separated one from the mass of others and handed it to the man-servant.

He was soon conducted into the library, a pleasant enough room that was filled with beautifully bound books that had never been read. Courfeyrac had given hat, gloves and cane to the man-servant and was now left without anything to fidget with (Courfeyrac disdained pocket watches and chains, much like umbrellas, as bourgeois affections-- the only matters in which his Romanticism automatically triumphed over his innate practicality). The fact that he had nothing to play with obscurely unsettled him, he did not like to be entirely concentrated on an errand that gave him no pleasure.

An old gentleman with white hair, wearing the exaggerated fashions of the 1790s, looked upon Courfeyrac with pleasure and said, “Well, well, and you must be the grandson of Giles de Courfeyrac! Ah, he was a good old _procurer du roi_. Giles and I, we once went to the opera and he pointed out to me that two beauties celebrated by Voltaire were looking upon me. But, between two fires, I retreated to a pretty little dancer named Nehenry. How pretty she was--that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last time I saw her at Longchamps, her hair curled in sustained sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation muff! They had the most poetic names for clothes in those days. Even for the men. I wore in my young manhood a waistcoat of Nain-Londrin-- ah Giles! What a good fellow, he was lucky to die in 1791 of apoplexy. Apoplexy or gout, I can never recall.”

“I had a great-uncle Giles who died of apoplexy,” said Courfeyrac, “and I am pleased you remember him, but sir, I am afraid--”

"By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade!" exclaimed Monsieur Gillenormand. “Now I recall, Giles had a nephew who married a daughter of the comte de Provence, a very pretty creature if one disregarded her red hair. I see now, you are in her image!”

“Thank you sir,” said Courfeyrac, choosing to take this digression as a compliment. “But it is not on my family’s account I have come--”

“Ah, but your own!” exclaimed Monsieur Gillenormand. “Well, well, you must know that I have given up most of my salons, but I daresay I can be assured of a good reception in the best of homes. Let me see your letter of introduction.”

Courfeyrac discovered he had been pulling on his cuffs enough to make a button loose; he stopped himself with difficulty, mentally scolding himself for the ruin of his previously immaculate linen. “No, sir-- that is, I am thankful at your instant offer of hospitality, but I come here on behalf of my roommate, your grandson, Marius Pontmercy.”

The old gentleman’s smile vanished and he turned to the fire and began hitting the logs with the tongs. “Ah yes, what does the young reprobate wish? How does he live?”

“He borrows from me and does some translation work-- but please don’t think I have come here out of mercenary motives.”

“What happens to the twelve hundred pistoles I send him a month?” cried the old man. “If he is indeed so profligate--”

“I assure you no, he is not-- I nicknamed him ‘Monsieur L’Abbé’ for good reason. He mentioned once to me that he returns the money you send him. Sir, I-- it gives me no pleasure to say this. Marius is....” He did not want to say it. Each time he said it, he made it more real. “Marius has cholera.”

Monsieur Gillenormand dropped the tongs.

“I am happy to pay for his care out of pocket, please don’t think-- it is only-- it is only that if I were in his situation I would wish for my family.” Courfeyrac spread his hands. “And now we have, at last, arrived at the purpose of my visit. He never told me the exact circumstances of your quarrel, and I do not know if-- if you at all wish to have any news about him. But I could-- I could not consider myself Marius’s friend if I did not....” It was difficult to speak, particularly since now Monsieur Gillenormand looked his ninety plus years. “Recovery is so rare that I... well. I did what I hope Marius would have done for me in similar circumstances.”

“When did he fall ill?” asked Monsieur Gillenormand.

“This morning, I think.”

“Where is he now?”

“In our apartment, no. 16 rue de la Verrerie.”

Monsieur Gillenormand turned around suddenly. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. “Basque!” he cried. “Basque, man, where are you!”

An old man-servant, wheezing, appeared in the doorway.

“A coach,” said Monsieur Gillenormand, wiping the tears from his eyes. “A coach damn you, and be quick about it!” As soon as Basque wheezed away, the gentleman staggered over to Courfeyrac and demanded to know about Marius’s health, his habits, his course of treatment, flinging his questions with such rapidity that Courfeyrac had no time to answer them.

“Ah and when to think, he had only to walk through the door and call me ‘Grandfather’ I would have given him the keys to the house!” Monsieur Gillenormand wept into Courfeyrac’s coat. “Oh the poor boy! He is too much like me, too proud! Oh and I thought _I_ should die before we parted!”

“There are-- there are some cases of recovery,” said Courfeyrac, trying to save his coat by offering Monsieur Gillenormand his handkerchief. “We have caught it very early.”

But Monsieur Gillenormand could not be consoled until the porteress of Courfeyrac’s building let them in, saying, in some confusion, “We live so far from the market-- I did not think the miasmas would affect the young gentleman.”

“He often walks very far, alone at night,” said Courfeyrac, more-or-less hanging onto Monsieur Gillenormand’s coat-tails. “You are completely blameless-- no Monsieur, my apartment faces the street!”

“Marius!” cried Monsieur Gillenormand, frozen in the doorway. “He is dead, ah the rascal!”

“I’m not _that_ bad a doctor,” said Joly, a little nettled, looking up from where he was hanging the bunches of lavender Courfeyrac usually kept in his linens, to keep away moths. “Look here, I am even trying to drive away the worst of the miasmas to try and limit the severity of the illness.”

Marius stirred on his mattress and said, in a bleak tone, “Ah! What does cholera matter, my heart has broken, she laughs at me when I present myself. ”

He had evidently planned this little speech, as he then repeated it again, all in a rush, as he scrambled out of bed to a chamberpot that Joly, aware of Marius’s delicate sensibilities, had put behind a dressing screen.

“Good God, with what complexity do our lives intertwine,” said Courfeyrac, hoping to match Marius’s dramatic tones. “Marius, old fellow, you never even talked to Mademoiselle Fauchelevant. I don’t precisely wish to bow out of the field or do battle with you, but once you are-- once you are better I shall take you to her home and you can do your utmost best to cut me out.”

Monsieur Gillenormand seized upon this with joy. “Ah, Marius, was it a love affair that has kept you from coming to see me? Ah you young rascal, I cannot be angry with you, you must tell me all about it-- come, let us go home, I have kept your room in readiness, we will jabber on, you will tell me everything and sapristi! If I cannot help you cut out the good Monsieur de Courfeyrac here, why, then, I do not know my business! Come Marius, are you well enough to get in the carriage now, or do you need to rest?”

“Leave me alone, I want to die,” said Marius, collapsing back on his mattress and ignoring the cup Joly was endeavoring to get him to take.

“That is not an option, young man,” said Monsieur Gillenormand. “You are not allowed, in a choice between ‘stay here’ and ‘come with me,’ to choose death.” He turned to Joly. “Can he be moved?”

“I’ve just given him a little lemonade,” said Joly. “Let us see if he can keep it down--”

Marius rolled over and proved that he could not.

“Nature so very quickly answers our most pressing questions,” said Joly. “He seems to have rid himself of everything else, if the journey is not very long, you may move him without injuring his health. Or the upholstery of your carriage.”

The old man’s relief at hearing that he might be near his grandson was boundless. He seized Courfeyrac and kissed him on both cheeks, and performed the same office for the startled Joly.

“Marius, my son, you are coming home, we shall have you all better, I shall call my own doctor and you know he has kept me in such good health that I shall live to see ninety-three again. A mixed blessing surely, but he shall make sure you, at least, shall see thirty again.” He turned almost feverishly to Joly and pressed his hand, saying in an undertone, “There have been recoveries, I have read it in the paper! All these old ministers, these Periers and Lamarques, they are old, ill. Marius is young, healthy, he shall live, shall he not?”

“I--I cannot say one way or the other,” stammered Joly.

But where cholera was concerned, uncertainty was a rare blessing. Monsieur Gillenormand pulled a purse from his pocket and shoved it into Joly’s hands, in, as Joly later described it, a very bizarre attempt to bribe Marius into health once again.

“Come now, Marius, your excellent good friend Monsieur de Courfeyrac will help you up, we will take you home-- ah you will be _home,_ Marius, we shall have you happy and healthy again. What is the name of the girl?”

“I thought it was Ursula,” Marius said, a little defeated. He allowed Courfeyrac to help him up, and leaned heavily on him as they made their precarious way to the door.

“Her name’s Cosette Fauchelevant,” said Courferyac, wondering how Marius, who seemed to live on moonbeams and poetry, could possibly weigh so much. “I can well understand your attraction to her Marius, I’m mad over her myself.” Then, to Monsieur Gillenormand: “A very lovely girl, compassionate, practical, brave, with lashings of Romanticism thrown in to enliven the mix. She’s a friend of my sister’s. I’m sure I would never have pursued her if I’d known Marius had been staring at her in the Jardin de Luxembourg for months. You see Marius, this is what comes of keeping secrets from your friend and also stalking young ladies instead of actually courting them.”

“You mean he never spoke to her?” asked Monsieur Gillenormand.

“And I am glad for it, otherwise I shouldn’t have had a chance,” Courfeyrac lied, glibly enough. “Come Marius, you can manage these stairs, just grasp the railing as well.”

“I spoke to her today,” said Marius, with an effort. “She laughed at me.”

“Of course she did, you’d stolen her father’s handkerchief on the assumption that it was hers.”

Monsieur Gillenormand needed some vent for his confusion of feelings. He laughed loud and heartily at this, and did not stop until they had successfully stuffed Marius into the carriage. Once inside he held the unprotesting Marius against him, talking more to reassure himself than Marius, who, suffering as he was from both _malaise du siecle_ and cholera, repeated again that he would like to die.

“I shall give into you on everything else, but not that!” cried the grandfather. “Monsieur de Courfeyrac, I am indeed grateful to you-- call again tomorrow, you and your friend the doctor shall have admittance any time of day or night.” Monsieur Gillenormand made this sound like a rare and unusual treat. “Driver, on!”

Courfeyrac was left standing in the street, still more shocked and anxious than anything else. It seemed to him some sort of bad joke that someone he knew and someone he knew as well as Marius had cholera. It did not seem in the least bit real that he would return home that evening to an empty apartment. He usually got in just as Marius was preparing to go out, and they would say something to each other about poetry or the weather, or Marius would sullenly ignore Courfeyrac’s teasing remarks, or Marius would go off with his customary loan to God only knew where--

It was really all too much. One did not deserve to be unpleasantly surprised by one’s roommate twice in one day. Courfeyrac wearily mounted the stairs again, ignoring the portress’s distressed babblings by smiling his bewilderment and immediately edging into his apartment as soon as she stopped to draw breath.

Joly looked at Courfeyrac with a bewildered expression that seemed to mirror Courfeyrac’s own.

“They’ve driven off,” said Courfeyrac.

“Yes,” said Joly, just to be saying something.

The topic which chiefly interested the both of them now seemed impossible to speak of; with Marius no longer physically present, it was possible to pretend that he was well, that the most frightening, unknown plague of their generation was no worse than a bad cold, it was possible to pretend that the last hour had happened to someone else.

“Shall we split it?” Joly asked, a little abruptly, weighing the purse Monsieur Gillenormand had given him. “I think there are a hundred pistoles in here.”

“We should at least use some of it for a drink,” said Courfeyrac, going to the mirror to adjust his cravat. This soothed him enough to go outdoors and to hide the worst of his distress.

Joly and Courfeyrac gave an abbreviated version of events in the backroom of the Cafe Musain, when the discussion between Enjolras and Bahorel about General Lamarque’s bout with cholera made them too uncomfortable over Marius’s similar condition to keep quiet.

Bahorel clearly saw how uncomfortable they were and asked, “And why are you dressed like a bourgeois, Courfeyrac?”

“Worse tidings still,” said Courfeyrac. “I’m to go visit my brother in half-an-hour, he intends to take me to his club for dinner.”

“Keep your head down,” said Enjolras.

Bahorel nodded. “The other groups are agitated-- the revolt in Lyons has them stirred up again. We need only an excuse now that Louis-Philippe has shown his true colors aren’t the tricolor, just the Bourbon white.”

Courfeyrac grimaced. “It is very difficult for me _not_ to lose my temper right now, I feel like a cat trapped on a dance floor during a particularly lively mazurka.”

“Have you been thinking up that metaphor for the past ten minutes?” asked Bahorel.

“Yes,” admitted Courfeyrac, “but you must admit it was a good one. And you also must admit to thinking I have superhuman amounts of self-control not to lose my temper at my _brother_.”

“There will be another protest any day now,” said Enjolras. “Your brother has friends on the police force. We cannot let them know.”

“So I can’t just tell him to lump it?” asked Courfeyrac, almost sorrowfully.

“In a few months, perhaps,” replied Enjolras, with a faint smile.

“One can hope,” replied Courfeyrac, brightening at once.

“If you feel like you are entirely losing your temper, just get out of there,” advised Bahorel. “I know better than anyone that there are only so many punches a man can take before he cannot stop himself from swinging back.”

Courfeyrac finished his drink and clasped Joly’s shoulder. “Well, I have no end of alarming interviews today.”

Joly blew his nose. “I hope Marius--” But he could not finish.

Enjolras, with a gentle smile, said, “Let us hope your interview with your brother gives you no further cause for grief.”

Courfeyrac did not much believe this, but went to his brother’s apartment with at least the appearance of good humor.

“Yvain, I have hardly seen you since you came back from Aix!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, narrowly avoiding stepping on the cat twining its way through his legs. “How is everything?”

“ _Paire_ is much the same,” said Yvain, taking his younger brother’s hat and walking stick. “He can move his hand enough now to make something approaching a signature, but his right side is still paralyzed, for the most part. _Maire_ bears it all with equanimity. In fact, I think she much prefers to be left to run the estate without interference; she is still untangling the mess _paire_ made of our affairs. She was quite relieved to hear you would be taking a very lucrative position, as she didn’t think you could live off of the interest of the funds great-aunt Marianne left you, and she is worried about finding a dowry for Marie-- who, by the by, has driven off four more governesses. Laudine cannot get anyone else to come into the house to _interview_ let alone to take the position. They’ve been putting off their trip to Blois for nearly a month entire.”

Courfeyrac ignored this last bit. “I can live off the interest each quarter, more-or-less. _Maire_ and _paire_ only paid my university fees. Now that I have, by some miracle, passed the bar, that expenditure is quite finished.”

Yvain sighed. “And yet you do not have enough money to buy a proper tailcoat.”

“Frock coats are all the fashion,” protested Courfeyrac, flopping into a chair. Yvain’s cat, sensing in Courfeyrac a kindred spirit, nosed at Courfeyrac’s trouser leg. Courfeyrac bent down let the cat sniff his fingers before starting to scratch it under the chin. “What a tame little lion!” he exclaimed. “Don’t worry, I have put your cub into a good home. Little Leopoldine is petted and fussed over enough to satisfy even the most doting parent.”

The cat leapt up into his lap. “Look, even your cat has a better sense of fashion than you do. _She_ is capable of appreciating a well-crafted frock coat.”

Yvain sat down and drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair.

Courfeyrac, sensing trouble, studied the ceiling. “There seems to be a hole where your chandelier used to be. Are you having work done?”

“Hm? Oh, Paul got drunk and thought he could swing from the chandelier last night. He couldn’t. Fortunately the apartment above mine is being redone anyways.” Yvain cleared his throat. “I do not-- I do not particularly like lecturing you, Gauvain, but, in exchange for the great privileges you have been born into, there are certain... expectations of behavior. I promised _Maire_ and _Paire_ that I would speak to you of them, since _Maire_ has so much to worry about at the moment and Laudine obviously only antagonized you.”

Gauvain had vaguely been expecting a lecture, but the reality of it was so much more dreadful. He felt oddly hollow, as if all the bright happiness of the past few months had been suddenly punched out of him, when his defenses had been completely depleted through his anxieties over Marius. Courfeyrac tried to deflect the second blow by saying, “You never had an issue with my politics before.”

“I still don’t,” said Yvain. “It-- it concerns Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.”

Courfeyrac tried willing himself to sink through the floorboards so he wouldn’t lose his temper, but the laws of physics remained in effect. It was really such a shame, how matter didn’t switch states based on one’s feelings.  “Ah ha.”

“You were expecting me to say something?”

“Yes, but hoping you wouldn’t. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“As you made clear when you jumped out of Laudine’s window.”

Courfeyrac said impatiently, “There’s a cholera plague out there—”

Yvain shifted in his chair. “All the more reason to think of your future, since so many no longer have a future. I ought to have said something before, but I thought it was just one of your flirts, not a serious attachment that could possibly ruin your political career. Why did you have to stop being so capricious?”

It was said jokingly, but Courfeyrac, for perhaps the first time, could not laugh at himself.

Yvain cleared his throat. “Gauvain, I know you want a republic where all class distinctions are abolished and, for whatever reason, everyone is happy. It’s not something I ever understood, but I guarded you from the more unpleasant consequences of such folly. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, and it was wrong of me to try and protect you-- or perhaps I should have done a _better_ job of protecting you--”

“The point, dear brother,” said Courfeyrac. “You’re just flinging words about nonsensically.”

After a moment, Yvain said, “The world is not as you want it to be, Gauvain.”

“But it could be.”

Yvain spread his hands placatingly. “I rarely dabble in national politics, it might be. But the chance of that world disappeared in 1830 as soon as people started to believe it was possible. We still live in a society where your last name matters more than your first, and where people of our station have every luxury and freedom but our professions and our spouses. Come now, Gauvain, this cannot come as a surprise. You were brought up as I was, you _know_ what is expected of you. You never seemed to have trouble with it before.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t provoke a fight.. He studied the hole in his brother’s ceiling.

“I know you like her,” said Yvain, trying for tenderness. “She likes you. But you are a second son, you have a reputation to establish, under the aegis of the family name, and if you want to get into politics, you need a wife with political connections. Or, at the very least, a large dowry. You are better with your finances than anyone could have expected, but when you are first establishing yourself you cannot have a wife. Then, of course, you will be in England for... what, two years, at minimum, until the baron feels in good conscience he can push for your advancement. Part of that advancement will require you to take a wife-- or perhaps, better, an older mistress-- who can see to your career. Then, of course, if I never have children, which I am beginning to think is quite likely, _your_ children will inherit _paire’s_ estate in Provence. The person carrying on the de Courfeyrac name--”

“Why not get married yourself instead of lecturing me not to?” Courfeyrac nearly snapped. But he looked up and saw his brother’s expression. “I’m sorry Yvain. How is Paul?”

“He didn’t break his head at least, but he has been... frustrated. There has been an escape from La Force, some member of Patron-Minette.” Yvain looked at his hands. “I will have to marry at some point, too, regardless of my inclinations. That’s just what happens. It’s what one _does._ ”

“But why should one _do_ things that make them miserable just because it is _what is done_? Social behavior is not immutable. It changes-- people didn’t live in ancient Rome as they do in nineteenth century France.”

“No, but reflect, Gauvain-- the position as Talleyrand’s personal secretary is an excellent one, you will learn a great deal, be held in very high esteem, and be feted and celebrated in a country I think you have always wished to visit. It is a unique opportunity, and to gain it, one must... acknowledge other opportunities do not exist. Do you have any other plans for your life?”

“Revolution,” said Courfeyrac.

“Oh yes,” said Yvain, piqued, “that offers such steady methods of career advancement.”

“Clearly you have paid no attention to Talleyrand’s career.”

Yvain irritably rearranged himself in his chair. “Have you any desire to be a lawyer? I daresay you could convince yourself of it, if you tried, but everyone knows that politics is your passion-- you are just too young to realize how exactly one must dirty one’s hands to gain any influence in the field.” Then, as Gauvain’s expression was as set and stubborn as his own, Yvain snapped, “Good God, Gauvain, you wouldn’t be so foolish as to throw away this chance for a girl you can neither make your mistress, nor marry!”

Courfeyrac pushed the cat off his lap. “Well, Yvain, you clearly have no understanding of the past forty years or so of French history.”

“ _You_ clearly have no understanding of the choice you have before you-- accept the position, be happy, useful and successful, or refuse it and be cut off from your family, cause _Paire_ to have another fit and thus become completely immobilized and plunge both yourself and Mademoiselle Fauchelevant into social ruin and poverty.”

Courfeyrac dragged his chair over to the hole in the ceiling he had been staring at in lieu of losing his temper. He clambered on top of the chair, much to the astonishment of his brother.

“The devil-- Gauvain!”

“I do not much care for ultimatums,” came Courfeyrac’s voice, as he levered himself up and out of the room.

“Or apparently, for distinguishing between ‘hole in the ceiling’ and ‘proper exit!’”

“I will not be constrained by your petty bourgeois notions of what is and is not a door!”

And, as Yvain then heard footsteps and the door upstairs swinging open, Yvain shouted, “ _That_ was certainly a door!”

Courfeyrac let his older brother carry the point by slamming it shut behind him.


	16. In which Toussaint throws a cat

“Well yesterday was hellish,” said Courfeyrac.

They were both in uncharacteristically thoughtful moods and instead of sneaking up to Cosette’s bedroom, they were stargazing in the garden. Courfeyrac had been too annoyed with life in general to do much more than fling himself onto the old shawl Cosette had repurposed as a star-gazing blanket, and Cosette too jittery to want more than a friend at her side.

Cosette had made great strides out of the fog of shame and fear that had hung over her, but she was annoyed and tired from her conversation with Eponine yesterday, and irritated with what had happened afterwards. She hadn’t yet told Courfeyrac what had happened when she and Blanchefleur had had tea with Laudine, and was too upset to speak of it yet. She hadn’t even written to Courfeyrac about it, merely sent a note with Gavroche asking if Courfeyrac would come see her that evening.

“I am forced to agree,” said Cosette. “I don’t know when I started to feel harassed by life in general, but now it seems that every time I leave my room, there is something in the world to make me unhappy.”

“Our honeymoon over so quickly,” Courfeyrac murmured, with a sigh. He was laying on his stomach, his chin propped on his hands. “Love in the time of cholera—impossible, isn’t it? Yesterday not only did my roommate fall ill, but General Lamarque has died.”

“I hope your roommate isn’t severely ill,” said Cosette, after a moment. “Everyone talks about cholera, but I hadn’t _known_ anyone who came down with it.” Despite the warm, summer air, she shivered. “It’s all so dreadful. You did apologize to him for me, and say that I was not laughing at him?”

“I did, just as his grandfather came to get him.”

The cicadas and crickets chirped around them; distantly, one could hear the sounds of someone putting out the cat for the night. The daily life of Rue Plumet wound down to its tidy, proper end, the other residents drawing back into their homes like clockwork figures retreating after the bell had ceased to ring.   

“It doesn’t seem quite real to me,” said Courfeyrac. “God, what a day!”

After a moment Cosette said, in a small voice, “I think it gets worse.”

Courfeyrac glanced up at her. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

Cosette tore up a handful of grass and shredded it as she spoke. “When we got back to your sisters’ house, Blanchefleur said that today had been very exciting, and she almost saw someone die of cholera in front of her. Then Marie managed to break out of her room because the footman at her door also came down from cholera and had collapsed in the hallway.”

“Cholera?” Courfeyrac sat up at once. “In the house?”

“Yes-- so they’re leaving for Aix-en-Provence in four days, maybe five. They mean to leave before June sixth if it can at all be arranged.”

Courfeyrac searched for Cosette’s hand in the darkness. “Are you going with them?”

It had been enormously hard to ask; Courfeyrac perfectly understood Cosette’s almost tremulous silence. At last she said, “No, my father did not like the idea. He came in while Laudine was saying that they had stayed long enough, she didn’t care any longer about pushing for the baron to replace Casmir Perier, the baron couldn’t be prime minister if he was dead. Papa went to talk for the baron in his study for a bit and then said that we ought to leave the city too-- but he hadn’t any desire to go farther south than Lyons. The baron at first advised him to go north, but Papa had heard the cholera began in Oise and Meaux, so he is unwilling to go north of Paris. Of course, _my father_ hasn’t decided where we shall go yet, not in the least taking into account my own preferences, or-- oh, he is being--” Cosette made an annoyed sound.

Courfeyrac squeezed Cosette’s hand with an almost painful intensity. “Your father talked with the baron before deciding not to go to Aix-en-Provence?”

“Yes. I don’t know why he advised north—oh.”

Courfeyrac said nothing, merely played with Cosette’s hand, stroking her palm with his thumb, studying her fingers in the dim light. “My _loving_ family.”

“Do you think this is really it, then?” Cosette asked, her voice trembling with the weight of her unhappiness. “It seemed—it seemed so easy for me last week to say oh no, I could wait for you forever even if we couldn’t see each other for years, but—there’s such a _weight_ —and a wait—you are driving me to bad puns—”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Cosette buried her face against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. He kissed her temple and buried his face in her loosened hair, breathing in the calming scent of Hungary water.

“Poor darling, has it given you a headache? You smell like Hungary water.”

Cosette nestled closer to him. Courfeyrac never ceased to find her little characteristic tics and habits endearing; how she tilted her head to the side when thinking, how she worried at her lower lip occasionally, how when exhausted she liked to curl against him and, instead of hiding her eyes in the crook of her arm as she did when she slept on her own, she liked to press her forehead against his neck. She was doing so now.

Courfeyrac held her for a moment, tenderly stroking the back of her light muslin gown, wondering what was so objectionable in this gentleness, in this equitable companionship, this rational fellowship of equals, that made everyone think it unsustainable. “It’s not as bad as it seems, sweetheart. I am vastly annoyed with the efforts of my family at the moment, and you have been so tossed about as of late it’s no wonder you’re upset, but we have both forgotten that cholera’s been plaguing Louis-Philippe’s reign. It’s so weighty a matter it might crush that good old pear of ours. Louis-Philippe’s been plagued with so many problems and disappointed so many people, his general ineffectiveness against the cholera might just manage to unite them all. In fact, there have been some rumors that said pear is the one making us all sick. And....” He hesitated. “And our hopes for Lamarque don’t end with Lamarque himself.”

Cosette clutched him instinctively. She did not quite understand what he meant at first, her distress, having gone unacknowledged for too long, was now too painful to admit any relief except tears. “What-- can you mean...?”

Courfeyrac tilted up her chin with a forefinger to better look her in the eye. “I mean exactly what I’m implying. It’s not as bad as we’re making it out to be. Two days and perhaps you’ll be in Lyons, but I’ll come and see you immediately afterwards, in the republic we were meant to have two years ago. No more threats of England-- we’ll come up with some better plan. Do you see me as a lawyer?”

“I could,” said Cosette, blinking away tears. “I can’t-- I can’t quite see anything but a separation of some kind-- and I shouldn’t be upset, I know, it’s such a little thing to upset someone--”

“I would be terribly grieved if you weren’t upset,” said Courfeyrac. “I should hate to think you weren’t at least a little fond of me.”

“Don’t be silly about something this serious-- though I know you cannot help yourself, it’s a habit with you.”

“At least you know me thoroughly and like me anyways,” said Courfeyrac, a little ruefully. “But darling, it’s a matter of two days-- two months at most-- instead of two years. It’s just as tense as it was in July 1830-- June 1832 may very well be the new start of a revolutionary calendar.”

Cosette reflected that two months was better than the two years she had been expecting. She dried her eyes on the transparent sleeve of her gown and said, bravely, “Well, if we are to be parted for anywhere between two days and two years, we best make the most of the time we have left together.”

And they did—though Cosette found that her joy was so close to sorrow, Courfeyrac’s tenderness made her cry again. He was at first terrified that he had hurt her, but Cosette kissed him and said it had merely been a very trying day. After a moment she added, “And it—I suppose it is silly to be governed by the opinions of others, but everyone is _so convinced_ that we should be separated I have a hard time _not_ believing them.”

“Oh come now, my lark,” said Courfeyrac, pressing slightly ticklish kisses wherever he could reach. “Have any of them experience in emutes and barricade-building? I shouldn’t be surprised if it was General Lamarque’s funeral that caused Paris to rise up. People are too aggravated by cholera to stay put. The rich can flee, the poor will have to rise up against it. Perhaps all the gunsmoke will clear away the miasmas. Even if your father does take you from Paris, it won’t be forever. We’ll see each other again very soon.”

Cosette took what comfort she could out of this.

She was subdued the next morning, unsure if Courfeyrac was right. At any rate, it seemed quite sure that she would be in Lyons or Bordeaux, or some vexing place that was not Paris before there was any chance of revolution. It was the uncertainty of when they might meet again that upset her the most. Cosette now loved Courfeyrac with a devotion that sometimes frightened her, for she was very practical and though she never wanted their light and lovely courtship to end, she could not see how it could continue.

She had not been up at her usual hour, where she habitually drank a little milk and then went out into the garden. Her father had expected this and said nothing when Cosette finally emerged from her room at noon and moodily tore up her portion of their main dish, a small turbot in a white sauce, into pieces which she then fed to the cat. She had to be cajoled into eating a little salad and some strawberries and almonds.

Monsieur Fauchlevent was cheerful about their proposed journey, however, and ate his fish with all the relishes, and with good appetite. He was busy reading the one paper to which they subscribed. Generally he read it to keep up on what the police were doing, whom they had captured and whom they were searching for, but today the news was all about cholera.

“Ah, the poor man,” he muttered, as Cosette moodily pushed vegetables around her plate.

Cosette was not roused from the gloominess of her thoughts until her father sighed again and said, “General Lamarque! Poor fellow, they are rushing the funeral.”

“When is his funeral?” asked Cosette, feigning indifference.

“June fifth. The roads will be crowded—perhaps we should leave June sixth or seventh instead.” Then, with a false, hearty tone, he asked, “Now, child, where would you like to go? Lyons? Or perhaps the sea-side? You have never seen the ocean, have you?”

“No,” said Cosette, newly hopeful. “I would like to see the ocean, but is it a very long journey?”

“It depends,” said her father, very glad that she could be so easily distracted from heartbreak. “Let me get a map, I was reading a travelogue in the garden this morning.” He pulled the book out of his pocket and showed it to Cosette. “You can decide where you would like us all to go.”

Cosette scanned the tiny map on the first page. “Le Havre?”

“La Rochelle is actually on the Atlantic Ocean—the Bay of Biscany,” suggested her father.

“Yes, but that would be such a long carriage ride… surely the English Channel is just as good. Anyways, if we were going that far I should have to pack a separate bag for the journey itself, it would take _ages._ ”

Monsieur Fauchlevent considered this. He had other reasons to wish to leave Paris than the cholera epidemic. The day before the baron had drawn him aside and mentioned that the de Courfeyrac boy was balking at the opportunity to go to England. It had become evident to the baron, and to the de Courfeyrac boy’s elder brother, that the relationship between Cosette and Courfeyrac was now far too serious, and it was this, more than anything else, that was keeping him from a brilliant career. Monsieur Fauchlevent agreed at once that he did not wish for his daughter to be married and that it was good to separate them before passion could overrule practicality.

The baron hesitated to speak of the certain perils a young girl could be charmed into and, for a few moments indulged in small talk about the political situation and the cholera. The police were uneasy and suspicious; the baron talked of the difficulties facing the government and their network of spies, discussed the unrest caused by cholera and student protests, and eventually concluded that this was a bad time to be in trouble with the police.

This struck Monsieur Fauchlevent like a physical blow. But, as the baron did not look up from his glass of brandy until well after he had mentioned the particular delicacy of a female’s reputation, he was not surprised by Monsieur Fauchlevent’s paleness.

Monsieur Fauchlevent still disguised himself in the evenings and walked around his neighborhood. He had done so religiously, every evening since Eponine Thenardier frightened Cosette into a state of nervous collapse. He had only seen Eponine Thenardier once, dressed in an old gown of Cosette’s, meandering up and down the Rue de Babylone. This did not necessarily mean she had discovered the hidden passage, but Monsieur Fauchlevent took care to make sure the doors were always locked. Then, that evening at eight-o-clock, he had seen Thenardier prowling the neighborhood.

It was time to leave Paris, and Monsieur Fauchlevent was happy to use the baron’s advice as an excuse. He thought about leaving France altogether, but he did not wish for Cosette to panic again and once again lose the good spirits she was only now regaining. For the same reason, he did not tell her he had seen Thenardier.

“The air is getting very bad all over the city,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, at length. “The sooner we can be prepared to leave, the better. A large trunk for you, a small one for me, and a small one for Toussaint—that and some linens—“

“And my cat!” exclaimed Cosette.

Monsieur Fauchlevent was momentarily stumped. He had no idea how to transport a cat to the French coast. “Ah, Toussaint, there you are.’

“Th-there is a g-gamin at the door,” said Toussaint, a little disapproving.

“Give him a five sou piece and send him on his way,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, folding up his newspaper.

“I’ll do it,” Cosette said, forcing herself to sound indifferent. Her father nodded and gave her the coin, and asked Toussaint if she thought perhaps a sea breeze would be beneficial to her health.

Once out of sight, Cosette sprinted to the door. Gavroche was standing there, holding out a bouquet of tricolor flowers—poppies, daisies and sprigs of flowering rosemary tied together neatly.

“Glad it was you what come to the door,” said Gavroche cheerfully. “I don’t much fancy having that tough old bloke coming out and throwing the flowers at me head.”

“My father wouldn’t do that,” Cosette said, taking the flowers with pleasure. There was a white piece of paper hidden in the bouquet; Cosette quickly plucked out the letter and hid it in her sash.

“Can you come to the garden gate around two for my reply?” Cosette asked, handing him the five sou piece.

Gavroche tipped his hat at her. “I ain’t got anything else to do today. I’ll feed me _momes_ and be back as soon as you sign your name.”

“How wonderful you are!” exclaimed Cosette, burying her face in the flowers. “Thank you—I am very grateful and please tell Monsieur Courfeyrac he needn’t have gone to such trouble.”

“These ain’t exactly roses,” said Gavroche, perplexed. “You can find poppies just about anywhere, and daisies, they grow up in the grass in the park, or at least the little ones do. He ain’t even tryin’ and though I ain’t about to speak badly of a client, I think he collected them himself.”

Nothing could have made Cosette happier.  She laughed. “I never knew he had such an eye for flower arrangement. I think I love him more every day—and if you see him, you may tell him that.”

Cosette closed the door, called that she was no longer hungry and was going to her room to read. And, technically, she was, though it was a love letter rather than a novel. His letters were usually playful and sweet, written in a looping, though even, copperplate, but this one had ink-blotches and lines skittering diagonally across the page. It took Cosette a minute to decipher the gist of the message.

There was to be revolution.

Cosette had never been happier for political unrest before, but the personal and the political now seemed to inseperably intertwined.  Her reply to Courfeyrac was just as illegible, but she calmed herself afterwards by writing a brief and chatty note to Blanchefleur about her father’s decision to go to the sea-side instead. She was even able to be pleasant and agree to go to the Temple bazaar to pick up some trunks and a basket for Leopoldine. Cosette even managed to find a jewelry box with a hidden drawer, where she could hide Courfeyrac’s letters and, almost more importantly, her mother’s.  

Her father was so cheerful at the prospect of leaving Paris and returning to having no social circle at all, he even asked Cosette if she would like to purchase a bathing costume in Paris, or wait until they arrived in Le Havre.

The rest of the day passed quickly, in a flurry of packing and tidying. Cosette was glad of the activity; it made the night come more quickly. But, as she was impatiently pacing her garden, waiting for sunset, she heard the screech of metal on metal. Cosette turned to see Eponine, looking worn and tired in the fading light.

Cosette felt exasperated and impatient, but tried her hardest not to let it show. “Hello Eponine. I suppose you would like something to eat?”

Eponine nodded and then sat down heavily on a stone bench near the gate. “If it ain’t going to bother the old gentleman what bought you.”

“He’s always in bed by ten,” said Cosette, hiding her letter in her sash. “No, it won’t bother him unless you do something cruel again, and I hope we are past that.” As Cosette wished to preserve that hope, she went into the kitchen before Eponine could reply. She returned with an odd assortment of almonds, grapes, a bit of brie left from dinner, the end of a baguette and a couple of pastries, arranged hap-hazardly on a tray.

Eponine took the tray wordlessly and seemed happy to let Cosette pace around the garden, gazing fixedly at the horizon.

“It’s a storm out there,” said Eponine.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to rain for a couple of days yet,” replied Cosette, a little surprised that Eponine had picked up bourgeois small-talk so quickly.

Eponine snorted, which sounded very odd through her mouthful of almonds.  “I don’t know if you know this, but Louis XV was famous for saying, ‘after me the flood,’ with the flood being the French Revolution. That’s why I said there was a storm.”

“Yes, your very clever extended metaphor was much too full of political allusions for me to understand,” Cosette muttered. Her statement still could have been construed as political commentary; Gauvain had reported that a revolt wouldn’t break out until Lamarque’s funeral. But then, recalling that she had asked Eponine to enter into a social contract of kindness instead of cruelty, Cosette forced herself to say, in a more audible tone, “And how are you this evening?”

“I ain’t rained on yet,” said Eponine. “It grieved me not to see Monsieur Marius yesterday or today, but it happens sometimes that he is out wandering at night in the areas that are bad for one’s health. I do not follow him there, he will catch cholera that way. Instead I went and saw a ballet last night, up in the gods. It was nice, this lady all in white was in Scotland and lured a man away from his wedding. Then there were some witches and then the Scotsman put this scarf around the lady and she died and got shot up into the top of the stage.”

It was with some difficulty that Cosette determined this was a much abbreviated version of _La Sylphide,_ the Romantic ballet that had debuted a few months ago to enormous acclaim.  “Oh, I’ve seen that, I thought Marie Taglioni was better in _Robert le diable,_ it was a much more interesting role, with both good and bad in it, and I liked the setting more. Tales of chivalry, with knights running into demons and monsters of all sorts, are always more interesting to me than tales of wild Scotland.” Eponine was too busy eating to reply, so Cosette politely chattered on, “ _La Sylphide_ is such a sad ballet-- it leaves one with the impression that dreams are unattainable, or that one can only chase after beauty and never really capture it. I suppose I align myself too much with Keats, I think that a thing of beauty is a joy forever. One particularly beautiful action can resonate for years in your life.” Cosette stopped herself from commenting on the particular kindness of her father in taking her from the Thenardiers. Cosette only had to look at Eponine, drooping, weary, undeservedly tormented by poverty, to see how that beautiful kindness had become a joy forever.

But Eponine was no longer paying attention, she was staring at a mass of shadows by the gate.

“Lark,” she murmured, “where is your father?”

Cosette was startled by this. In a low tone, she asked, “Why, what’s the matter?”

Eponine sprung up hastily, shoving Cosette back towards the house. Eponine hissed, “It’s my father, get out of here Lark, before he finds you and decides to spit you and roast you--”

“And who is this hussy?” demanded a voice Cosette had remembered only in nightmares. Cosette looked over Eponine’s shoulder to see Thenardier, the rusted bar from the gate in his hand. Four or five others were sliding into the garden by the same means and before the last one had leapt through the fence, Eponine had shoved Cosette behind her, into a deep shadow.

“It’s your daughter,” said one of them.

“Come now, what is she doing here?” asked a great hulking fellow. “She was only supposed to look at the place-- and who’s that behind you?”

“No one, no one,” said Eponine, approaching them all with a sort of tense gaiety. “It is nice to see you all, My dear papa you out of prison--”

“Shut up,” said Thenardier. “Do you want to wake the whole neighborhood? Who is that? Damn it, if you’ve been chatting with the maid--”

“She won’t say a thing, she hates the owners of the house,” Eponine improvised wildly. “Let her be--” She pressed herself against a thread-bare dandy, whom, Cosette thought, in the absurdity brought on by terror, really could have taken some fashion tips from Courfeyrac.

"Take care," said the dandy, "you'll cut yourself, I've a knife open."

"My little Montparnasse," responded Eponine very gently, "you must have confidence in people. I am the daughter of my father, I know a knife when I see one. Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Guelemer, Monsieur Brujon, Monsieur Claquesous, I'm the person who was charged to investigate this matter. There’s nothing in the house, just the old man and the girl and the maid-- leave her be, she won’t scream if you don’t frighten her.” The great hulking fellow, Guelemer, had been shambling towards Cosette, but halted.

“You know she would, have you known any maid that wouldn’t scream at the least fright?” said Babet. “Let her be, if she gets a gold pin or two that she always envied her mistress she won’t make a sound.”

“Have you entirely lost your wits?” demanded Thenardier, turning to Cosette. She had been carefully and silently moving backwards across the grass and halted, terrified. “The girl’s right there, if we don’t slit her throat now, she’ll have the police on us with one scream.”

“She won’t scream,” Eponine interrupted, turning to her father. “She won’t, she’s too frightened of me, I’ve been scaring her into bringing me food all week and giving me gowns, I’ve seen inside that house, they have porcelain plates and old furnishings. The best things there are one or two gold hair ornaments I’ve already taken, there’s nothing here for you.”

The masked gentleman said, while advancing towards Cosette, “She has seen us, we might as well kill her and see what treasures her master has been hiding from her.”

“When we have turned the place over from attic to wine cellar we shall tell you what you’ve missed, you stupid bitch,” snarled Thenardier, shoving Eponine aside.

Eponine let out a snarling laugh. “I’m your daughter aren’t I? I can’t be a dog when I’m a wolf!” And with that, she grabbed the knife out of Montparnasse’s hand and quickly, brutally shoved it into the masked man’s side. The man fell to the ground, clutching his side, his fingers turning dark-- there was blood over them, blood gurgling out of the wound like some small spring and oh Cosette’s head was spinning-- and now Eponine was laughing again and pointing the knife at Thenardier.

“Have you gone mad?” roared Thenardier. “There are six of us!”

“Actually, five now,” said the one Cosette thought was Babet.

“There are five of you, what matters that to me? You are men. Well, I'm a woman. You don't frighten me. You can use your knives, I don’t care, I shall use mine and I’ll have the girl scream so loud the police will be on you before you can even think to run.”

Cosette knew she would be useless against any attackers and, while the group was distracted again, had been edging her way towards the house.

Thenardier sounded almost exasperated, “If that’s the only way to teach you girl--”

As he began to lunge at Eponine, Cosette screamed, “Papa! There are robbers in the garden!” and startled Thenardier into missing. Cosette turned and ran into the house, still screaming. She held the door open for Eponine, who had turned to run as well, since three of the men were now threatening her, but Thenardier shoved Eponine to the ground and flung himself against the door just as Cosette tried to close it.

Cosette nearly staggered back, but she pressed herself bodily against it, shouting, “Papa _you had better hurry or I will never forgive you_!” This was not likely to strike terror into the hearts of the rogues probably manhandling Eponine in the garden, but it certainly made Monsieur Fauchlevent burst out of his shack in the back of the house, shouting for her.

“Cosette? Cosette where are you?”

Cosette felt as if iron chains were squeezing around her heart as Thenardier said, in some exasperation, “You’d think I was the only thief in Paris! Never mind, we’ll make this come out right this time, the old man won’t get away from us again-- Brujon, leave Claquesous, it’s just a flesh wound! All of you, go get the old man, I’ll take care of the girl-- Montparnasse you ass, leave Eponine!”

“She hit her head,” said Montparnasse.

Thenardier only responded with a grunt, as he flung himself against the door again. Cosette skittered backwards but managed to push herself against the door again.

She heard an inarticulate shout from her father and then noise of a scuffle. There was noise on the stairs; Toussaint was clattering down them in her dressing gown, stammering.

“Toussaint, help me move something in front of the door, there are thieves in the garden,” Cosette managed to get out, as the slipped and slid on the hardwood floor. “ _Toussaint, please hurry--_ ”

Toussaint didn’t move fast enough. As soon as she ran into the living room to grab a table, someone else took over Thenardier’s position at the door and Cosette went flying across the hall.

Toussaint gave an unholy shriek and with some hitherto unknown reserves of peasant cunning, picked up the sleeping Leopoldine and threw the cat at Guelemer’s face.

Cats generally hate to be woken up.

When they wake up midair, as they are approaching the face of a stranger, they hate it even more.

It proved to be equally hateful for Guelemer, who saw the fury, savagery and blood-thirstiness of a leopard shrunk down into one small but sharply clawed and toothed tabby, unable to tell which way was up or down, but very willing to sink its claws into any solid surface. With true feline perversity, the more Guelemer swore and pulled at the cat, the deeper Leopoldine sunk her claws. Guelemer stumbled blindly into the sitting room, where he crashed into what sounded like every piece of furniture in the house.

Cosette, dazed, frightened, and more than a little bewildered that a cat had proved to be such an effective projectile weapon, grasped the legs of an end table and pulled herself up. Thenardier, swearing and equally confused, entered into the hall, silhouetted by the fading sunlight behind him.

“What the hell is going on?” Thenardier muttered to himself. But he spotted Cosette and advanced, grabbing her by the arm before she could run. “The trouble I’ve had on your account, Lark--”

Cosette felt seven years old again, terrified, defenseless, just waiting for the rain of blows she knew was coming, would always come. She struggled vainly against him.

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!” cried Toussaint, from the sitting room.

The call seemed to snap Cosette out of her terror. She wasn’t that child any longer. She was a properly brought up, convent-educated demoiselle, who had picked up a trick or two from the elegantly concealed savagery in the Faubourg Saint-Germaine. As Thenardier spun Cosette around to face him, Cosette did the only thing she could think to do in such a situation.

She viciously kneed him in the groin.

Courfeyrac had been right, she thought, a little surprised, as Thenardier crumpled onto the ground, with a high-pitched whining sound. He was certainly in no condition to bother her any longer. But, to be sure of it, Cosette pushed the endtable on top of him and leapt over him. Toussaint staggered out of the sitting room and grasped Cosette’s hand, wringing it almost painfully. “Oh Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, where is your father?”

“Outside-- come on, quickly!”

Cosette dragged Toussaint behind her and out into the garden, where her father was pummeling the last two men (Babet and Brujon? Cosette wouldn’t recall). There didn’t seem to be much skill and form involved, judging by the fencing matches Cosette had seen Courfeyrac engage in, just Cosette’s father throwing people about. He physically lifted the masked man grabbing at his legs and threw him at one of the other thieves.

“Cosette!”

“You’re not leaving through this gate,” said the last of the thieves, lunging at Cosette’s father with a knife. Monsieur Fauchlevent grabbed his arm as he lunged and then began twisting his arm up and squeezing until the man yelped in pain and dropped the knife.

Eponine was sitting up a little sluggishly. Cosette released Toussaint to help Eponine up but the dandy-ish fellow by her held his knife out.

“Don’t you touch her--”

“I’m not letting you cut her up,” Cosette said frostily, “or leaving her to her father-- come on Eponine.”

“You stop right there.”

Cosette had had enough of the young fellow with the tattered daisy in his button-hole and his threadbare frockcoat. “You can go to hell.”

“What are you doing?” asked the man, reaching for her. He almost grabbed her; Cosette, a little panicked, stepped hard on his instep with the heel of her shoe before remembering what it was she ought to do.

A knee to the groin worked just as well this time around, too, though he howled in pain.

“Oh shut up,” Cosette said crossly, pulling up Eponine. “You are making an awful lot of noise, I shall gag you with your own cravat if you do not calm down.”

“Fuck that!” panted the robber.

“No, I’d rather not,” said Cosette. “Come on, before your father’s up again.”

“Through the courtyard,” said Cosette’s father, tersely. Toussaint staggered after him, Cosette and Eponine not very far behind. Her father paused only long enough to grab the black bag he always carried with him, containing the bishop’s candlesticks and Cosette’s jewelry box, along with a few other essentials, before they ran out.

Thenardier staggered out of the house almost to see what was going on, and then exclaimed, furiously, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away,” said Cosette’s father walloping him hard across the face with the bag. Very few people could withstand being hit by Jean the Jack; even fewer people could withstand being hit by Jean the Jack while he was wielding two silver candlesticks, a small carrying case with Cosette’s childhood gown and doll, and an ebony jewelry case.

Thenardier did a clumsy pirouette before falling, unconscious, to the cobblestones.

“There’s a secret passage here, in the garden,” Cosette said, still in a panic. She pressed the spring that opened the hidden door near the back of the shack, and led everyone down a long, narrow, paved winding corridor, open to the sky, hemmed in with two lofty walls.

“How do you know about this?” asked her father, a little suspiciously.

“The same reason I know the most sensitive part of a man’s anatomy,” said Cosette.

Then, seeing her father’s expression, she stammered out, “Pure--pure accident!”

Her father was not much relieved by this serendipity.


	17. In which M. Fauchlevent broods

“You know, Montparnasse wouldn’t’ve hurt me,” said Eponine, as Cosette dabbed at her forehead with a handkerchief soaked in Hungary water.

“Which one was that?” asked Toussaint, still considerably overwhelmed. She had been mute with shock the entire, extremely awkward coach ride, while Cosette taxed her ingenuity to explain why her father, who had neither coat nor hat, but a large black bag, her housekeeper, who was wearing a dressing gown, her maid-of-all-work, who was bleeding from the head, and herself, had emerged from a wall, to the coachman’s incredulous gaze, and now needed to driven to the Rue de l’Homme Armé.

“Montparnasse was the well-dressed one,” said Eponine.

Cosette snorted.

“Hey, he ain’t got the means like your young man,” protested Eponine.

This brought to Monsieur Fauchlevent’s attention the fact that his daughter had been out in the garden at ten-o-clock at night to begin with, and further reminded him that she had kneed two thieves in the groin and then showed an unerring knowledge of opening and using the secret passageway to the Rue de Babylone. He appreciated her inventive story about dangerous miasmas invading the house and an apparently leprous coachman from whom they were all fleeing in terror, but his daughter’s hitherto untapped reserves of cunning made him deeply suspicious.

“Cosette, what were you doing in the garden?” asked her father.

“Star-gazing,” Cosette said, focusing on Eponine’s head wound. “We were supposed to leave for Le Havre in a few days, I wanted to be sure the flowers would be alright without me. I suppose we can’t go now, we haven’t any clothes or linens. Or my cat.”

“By all the saints and their mothers, you are not returning to the Rue Plumet for your _cat_ , while assassins roam about with their horrible knives!” exclaimed Toussaint, in her peasant dialect of Barneville.

“No, I was just commenting that she was still back there,” said Cosette, a little irritably. “You did throw her at someone’s face, you might have a little more concern for Leopoldine, she helped to save our lives.”

“Thus proving that Leopoldine can adequately defend herself for an evening,” observed Monsieur Fauchlevent, firmly. “In the morning I will go back for our trunks-- or what is left of them-- and the cat. Stay indoors and away from the windows. Toussaint, see what we have here for the night.”

Though he did not much care for his own comfort, he was worried Cosette would pass an unpleasant evening, trapped in memories of her past, but her self-possession surprised him. Cosette busied herself helping Toussaint, sorting through the closet for linens and pillows, borrowing candles from the portress, and scolding Eponine into better self-care. If Cosette went rather too frequently to the windows to peek out and then rebar them, Monsieur Fauchlevent did not say anything. Monsieur Fauchlevent had often been soothed by the ritual and routine of the Catholic Church; Cosette, accustomed to its ways since earliest childhood, found a great deal of comfort in small, repeated actions and phrases. Monsieur Fauchlevent later found her playing with an old set of rosary beads, muttering ‘Ave Maria’s to herself while watching the door.

The next morning Monsieur Fauchlevent slipped out early to procure essentials from the market and to check on the house in the Rue Plumet. He had left an old coat at the Rue de L’Homme Armé and, wearing this and an old cap he borrowed from the portress, he could pass easily enough as a porter. A poor, old, busy one, to be sure, but he bought all he needed and darted quickly in and out of the wrecked house on the Rue Plumet. Thenardier’s gang had vanished, as had all the pictures on the walls, Cosette’s furnishings and everything else that could be moved. The trunks, stuck in Monsieur Fauchlevent’s shack, were untouched. There was a trail of blood on the garden path from the masked man Monsieur Fauchlevent had thrown, and Leopoldine was mewing piteously in the box hedges, but the garden looked otherwise undisturbed. It was too late to repair the damage to the inside of the house, but Monsieur Fauchlevent gathered up Cosette’s books and sheet music and locked the door, as a sort of temporary fix.

Cosette was up when Monsieur Fauchlevent arrived home; he startled her when he opened the door and she raised her book like a club, on the off-chance it was Thenardier.

“It is only me, child,” Monsieur Fauchlevent said. “I need to bring up the trunks from below-- here is your cat.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cosette said, uneasily. “Eponine is better, I think. She went to sleep easily enough. I just gave up around sunrise and decided to read instead.” She held out the book and Monsieur Fauchlevent pretended to be interested in _Yvain, the Knight of the Lion_ while Cosette took his basket and cooed to her cat. Once he was sure Cosette felt safer, Monsieur Fauchlevent carried up all the trunks and amply tipped the coach driver for his lack of curiosity. Monsieur Fauchlevent felt a sort of calm descend upon him, in this quiet street with its ancient houses and the crossbeam which kept coaches from entering. No one passed through, there was an air of stagnant oblivion in this street of peaceable inhabitants, that got dark at mid-day. Cosette did not quite share this tranquility; she had draped Leopoldine around her shoulders, as she had once layered shawls, and tensed when she heard the door open.

“Do you remember,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, gently, moving to the bread and cheese he had bought earlier that day, “how I used to eat black bread, but you refused to eat white unless I ate it too?”

The little ritual of remembrances calmed her. Cosette broke off the end of a baguette and said, with a tentative smile, “Yes, of course. I also remember that you wouldn’t have a fire in the evenings until I insisted! I don’t understand how you can be so good, so generous to me and so miserly with yourself. Some day I’ll force you into a life of comfort, just you wait.”

A quiet, shared life of comfort-- that was all Monsieur Fauchlevent had ever wanted. He took Leopoldine off of Cosette’s shoulders. “We will have that soon. We will leave Paris--”

Cosette paled.

“As soon as it is safe. We will stay here a few days.”

Cosette nodded, uncertainly, and asked if she might go down to see the portress.

“Thenardier has vanished,” Monsieur Fauchlevent said gently.

“Still,” said Cosette. “I should like-- it’s-- we only see the courtyard from the windows--”

Monsieur Fauchlevent deeply understood the constant need to check one’s surroundings, to disbelieve all signs that one was, for the moment, safe, until all possibility of danger had been eliminated. “Go ahead.”

Cosette adjusted her sash and went down the stairs. She came back looking considerably more cheerful, though she went downstairs again four more times that day to chat with the portress and see if anyone had passed into the dim obscurity of the Rue de L’Homme Armé.

Eponine was subdued and slept most of the day on the divan in the combination dining room and antechamber, and Toussaint managed to spend the entire day bringing chaos to the previous order of all their trunks. Monsieur Fauchlevent watched Cosette and was relieved to see her calm and smiling after her last chat with the portress. He turned his attention to his black bag after dinner, when Cosette settled in the living room, reading _Yvain, the Knight of the Lion_ aloud to Eponine. Toussaint retired early to the garret and folding cot that now served as her bedroom, and so Monsieur Fauchlevent found some calm in sorting through all the trunks and bags cluttering their small apartment. He was primarily concerned with his black bag. The household accounts contained therein were still in a semblance of order (though the bills had come out of their portfolio and needed to be sorted-- that might be a nice, calming task for Cosette tomorrow). The Bishop’s candlesticks still gleamed as brightly as ever when Valjean took them out and lovingly placed them on the table by his bed. The little case with Cosette’s doll and childhood clothes was intact, the contents jumbled, but unbroken.

Thenardier’s face had unfortunately broken Cosette’s jewelry box in two, and amongst her hairpins and bracelets, Monsieur Fauchlevent found a great quantity of letters. The first ones were Fantine’s, written in the impartial hand of some clerk or other, and Monsieur Fauchlevent spent some time smiling sadly at them. Then he spotted a few letters in an altogether different hand-- a looping copperplate that, in one or two missives, slanted halfway down the page.

It perhaps would have been the better, more honorable thing, not to look at them, but the letters had been read so often, so often smoothed out, that the letters were not quite shut. Monsieur Fauchlevent glimpsed the phrase, ‘--to be revolution as I said last night. Please don’t worry sweetheart, as some poet--’ and opened the letter before he could even think of the morality of his actions. They were all letters from the de Courfeyrac boy, one or two of them almost explicit-- in all there were double entendres, Monsieur Fauchlevent was sure, references to secret passages, to meeting at night, to being in _Cosette’s bedroom_ \--

He read the de Courfeyrac’s boys letters again, but he did not believe them. They had to be a hallucination, a dream. This was impossible. He could not accept this. His daughter-- as beautiful as her mother--

A horrifying thought occurred to Monsieur Fauchlevent. If Cosette should echo her mother’s fate-- but she wouldn’t, thought Monsieur Fauchlevent, if Cosette, like her mother, fell prey to a charming smile that came without any support, they would go off to Le Havre, they’d live together, there would be three instead of two, that would all be fine, Cosette would be even more tied to him than before, society would reject her--

Monsieur Fauchlevent got up and cracked open the door to his room.

Cosette and Eponine were wholly absorbed in their book.

“--missing the point, it’s about how a society works-- or ought to work. Men ought to take their obligations seriously, Sir Yvain doesn’t and goes mad. He only gets better when he picks up the slack for Sir Gauvain, who, in turn, is picking up the slack for Sir Ké.” Cosette, sitting by the window, peered through the slats. “I wish the world worked a bit more like that-- there’s a moral code, everyone obeys it and those who don’t are shunned and defeated in battle. And men fight to right women’s wrongs. I know Gauvain and his friends are like that, but no one else I’ve seen in society is at all like that. I wish more people were like Gauvain.”

“What else do you wish?” asked Eponine. “Go on, Lark, there ain’t anything you can say now that would surprise me, you’re babbling on about chivalry.”

“I....” Cosette made an irritated noise. “I don’t wish for things, really, I was never in the habit of it as a child-- I--I hoped, despite all evidence to the contrary. I’m older now, I have more experience of the world, I know that the things I hope for are-- if not impossible, _improbable_.” Monsieur Fauchlevent saw, through the crack in his door, Cosette pacing the small salon, her cheek pressed against the translucent muslin of the sleeves and shoulders of her gown. “I don’t stop hoping, but life crowds in on me and seems to cut out all the light-- hope doesn’t live very long when everyone around you tries to smother it.”

“I hoped I’d live past winter,” said Eponine.

“That’s not an unreasonable hope, though.”

“It was for me.”

Cosette paused suddenly, her light summer skirts swirling around her, like that ballerina she adored. Monsieur Fauchlevent wondered how much of Cosette’s unphasable cheerfulness was an act, like the ballerinas pretending to be untouchable sylphs. If you saw one slip, you realized you hard they worked to maintain the illusion, but it was so easy to see their ever smiling grace and think them untouched by pain or suffering. Monsieur Fauchlevent wanted so badly to keep Cosette from ever suffering again.

Cosette looked out the window and said, very slowly, “I hoped... well. I hoped that I’d marry Gauvain. I want that so badly I can’t even say it out loud without thinking I’m absurd and wanting to-- to laugh it off or something. Whenever he asks I have to make excuses because-- because I’ve never wanted anything so much and known in advance how much it would hurt not to get it. And since I am being ridiculous-- I’d hoped-- I’d wanted to run a salon. I’ve seen the baroness of Beaulieu do it, I think I would be good at managing a salon. I like almost everyone I meet, I know how to be polite and to get people to mingle, I could do it, I know I could. I could run a-- a political salon, or a literary one. Or a joint one, after a while. That’s what I really want. To have people all over Paris to visit who want to visit me, to have a living room full of people happy to be there. I want to be able to walk in the park and have to stop half-a-dozen times to say hello to people. I never want to be as I--... I don’t want to be like I was as a child ever again. I never want to be alone and friendless and only ever feeling fear. I want to always be surrounded by people I love and people I like and be happy.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent went back to his room and read through the letters again. He did not want to like Gauvain de Courfeyrac. He did not want the world to change. He did not want Cosette to be pulled away from him into the glittering world of salons, where she might be as untouchable as the stars, so far would she be beyond Monsieur Fauchlevent’s reach. His anguish and his perplexity grew. It now seemed to him impossible that Cosette, so sweet, still so much his child, could possibly have been lured into the same trap as Fantine, particularly if the de Courfeyrac boy was talking of marriage-- but that was impossible. It dimly dawned on him, like a sunrise through fog, that though Cosette sufficed for his happiness, he did not suffice for hers. All these things that she wanted-- they were not unreasonable for a girl of her supposed class and education-- marriage to an honorable(ish) young man of good birth and breeding, a political and literary salon, a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, security from the fear and want of her childhood--

“She is going away from me,” howled his soul. He was a convict, a peasant. He could not hope to go where she wished to reside. A quiver of revolt ran through him, he began to think not of Cosette, but himself. These were useless scraps of paper, she would read and sigh over them and forget the young man that wrote them. Cosette could give up the things she admitted to Eponine she could not hope for aloud-- she would still have a friend in the Thenardier girl, she would have her ever loving father, she would have Toussaint, they would have the quiet and comfortable life that had so appealed to Monsieur Fauchlevent earlier that morning.

Monsieur Fauchlevent raged within himself that evening-- his torments did not end with the sunrise. He snuck out of his room. Cosette was rather uncomfortably asleep while sitting on the floor-- her legs curled under her. an arm resting on the divan, by Eponine’s sleeping form, her head pillowed in the crook her her elbow. Monsieur Fauchlevent saw his National Guardsman uniform flung over a chair. He picked up the coat and draped it over Cosette.

He put on his old coat and borrowed cap and went to sit on the front steps of the building. The darkness of the street now seemed oppressive. He could not bear this new knowledge, that Cosette was not as carefree in her interactions with the de Courfeyrac boy as he had supposed (though it now seemed unlikely to him that Cosette, practical as she was, burdened with the knowledge of her mother’s descent into the abyss, still with such praises of chivalry for her dandified cavalier falling from her lips, could have so trespassed upon society’s rules that she was pregnant). How was it that Cosette wanted something he could not give her? He dully watched the traffic of servants and their masters and hoped that Cosette did not think to knock on his bedroom door. It was nearing noon.

He saw the messenger gamin that had given Cosette her cat coming down the street. The boy cheerfully picked up a rock and looked at the streetlamp directly across from the stoop of No. 7.

“That’s against regulation,” said the gamin, throwing the stone at the lantern. “There is a funeral today, all who can must be in black.”

The lantern shattered; across the way, a bourgeois gentleman, golden watch chain gleaming against his waistcoat, twitched his curtains shut and muttered something about ‘93.

“That’s right old street,” said the gamin, appreciatively. “Put on your mourning suit, that is much better.”

“Boy,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, no longer able to bear the solitude of his thoughts. “What’s the matter with you?”

“The matter with me is that I am hungry,” said the gamin, “but the matter with Paris is that it has cholera. As did General Lamarque, but he is dead and there is now to be a revolution.”

The words of the de Courfeyrac boy’s letter seemed writ in fire in Monsieur Fauchlevent’s memory. “Are you part of the revolution, then?”

“Yes-- I marched in the parade right by this bang-up big fellow who said the Pope had no right to tell us whether or not to eat eggs and now there is a barricade on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Is that the Archives at the end of the street? Those pillars would make for a good barricade, though we used an omnibus.” He clearly did not believe that pillars could top an omnibus. “They are still building it, however, perhaps they will add pillars. Most of the fighting is by Saint-Merry, but we shall see a rain of grapeshot, I have been promised it by the big fellow.”

“You should not be with them,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, digging in his pocket. “Here-- here is five francs, go eat an ice at the Palais-Royale, instead of playing on barricades.”

“I did in 1830 and nothing bad came of it!” the boy exclaimed, offended. “Why, I even had a gun, to boot. I would more worry about you, old porter, you shall break your back if anyone gives you work, your hair is whiter than a Bourbon flag, I can see it in all this darkness.” He tried to give the five franc piece back, though he was clearly dazzled by it, and kept sneaking admiring glances.

“Have you a mother?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent, his mind on Fantine and Cosette.

“Yes.”

“Then save it to take her out for ices once you have done with the barricades.”

This restored the gamin’s confidence in him, though the gamin said, a little suspiciously, “Have I not seen you before?”

“I imagine all us old fellows look the same to you,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. It occurred to him that perhaps the gamin did not recognize him. The street was dark, Monsieur Fauchlevent had the brim of his cap pulled low over his face, and his voice was rough from anguish and lack of sleep. “Here, boy from the barricade-- did you bring a letter to my master’s daughter?”

“I was to leave it with the portress, I did yesterday,” said the boy, suspiciously.

“The portress likes to read everyone’s mail. Mademoiselle Cosette sent me to get her letter from--” Monsieur Fauchlevent narrowly avoided saying, ‘the de Courfeyrac boy,’ “-- from a Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

“Ah, well then,” said the gamin, relieved. “I must have seen you around the old house in...?”

“The Rue Plumet.”

The gamin was reassured, he handed over the letter. Monsieur Fauchlevent snuck it back inside. Cosette was still half-asleep when he came in, and was rubbing her neck, Leopoldine curled up, purring, in her lap. Eponine was propped up against some pillows, mouthing the words to _Yvain, the Knight of the Lion_ to herself as she read it.

“Did you sleep?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent brusquely.

“I couldn’t until two or three in the morning,” said Cosette, the coat slipping off her narrow shoulders and onto the floor. “Were you out?”

“Yes-- stay in, both of you. There is fighting by Saint-Merry.”

A flicker of hope seemed to illuminate Cosette’s features. “Fighting? A-- a riot you mean, or a revolution?”

“Told you there was a storm,” said Eponine, a little smugly. “What’s started it now? An ordinance shutting presses, like last time? Men don’t work, they get mean and they want a fight.”

“Lamarque’s funeral, I imagine,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, going to his room. He felt like a thief again, the letter felt heavy in his pocket. His hand trembled as he opened the shutters and he read the letter through once without comprehending any of it. He read it again:

‘Cosette-

Thank God, then, that you are alright! When the passage was locked I had only thought you had gone to bed with a sick headache or something. What an adventure-- Blanchefleur will be jealous-- and I congratulate you on your self-possession in a crisis! As much as I wish you didn’t have to live through that, I wish I could have seen you in action. I am off to Lamarque’s funeral-- don’t expect me for three days at the very least. If you can delay your father that long, I shall kiss you again in a new republic. I shall be as careful as you begged me. I have no intention of dying when the future looks so bright, and now assuredly contains you in it. But, still-- best laid plans of mice and men (Scott? other Scottish fellow?)-- if I should fall in battle, I hope it will bring you some consolation to know how deeply you were once loved by

yr obnt srvt,

Gauvain Courfeyrac.’

Monsieur Fauchlevent was horribly dazzled by a frightful hope-- the de Courfeyrac boy would die, Cosette would wear the willow for him forever and no one would ever seek to part them again. If he did nothing, perhaps the barricade would fall, perhaps the de Courfeyrac boy would be arrested (if he was not killed)-- or, if he survived, surely his relations, so socially agile, would send him immediately off to England. Monsieur Fauchlevent, who always kept an eye on social unrest, knew that the dangerous classes-- the poor, the so-called immoral, the hand-to-mouth workers-- had been decimated by cholera. Bourgeois allies, unless they had some reason for staying like the de Courfeyrac boy, had likely fled from the plague. The bourgeois members of the Parisian National Guard liked Louis-Philippe and would not join the rebels, as the Lyons National Guard had several months ago. Indeed, it was difficult to dislike Louis-Philippe. He was so determined to be pleasant and reasonable, so thoroughly a bourgeois king of the French. And the spy network had traveled through the apocalypse of revolution unchanged. Monsieur Fauchlevent was confident this would not be another 1830. Louis-Philippe was too much the shrewd bourgeois. Two revolts outside of Paris had been crushed, and a kidnapping attempt had fallen painfully flat. Louis-Philippe would open up the umbrella he carried in lieu of a sceptre, calmly watch his spies run out, and walk unscathed through rioting proletariats, angry Legitimists who wanted Charles X back on the throne, and now republican and socialist Parisians.

Monsieur Fauchlevent was now tempted not to say anything and let events play out. Unless he had utterly misunderstood all the talk amongst the National Guard, they would not join the rebels. They would fire on the barricades. Perhaps the de Courfeyrac boy would scamper away unscathed, perhaps not. The cholera epidemic only proved the mysterious nature of God’s will.

But, having said all this to himself, Monsieur Fauchlevent became gloomy.

When he emerged from the depths of the abyss, Toussaint was trying to teach Cosette and Eponine to bake, or rather, attempting to arbitrate between them via pastry as they argued over politics. Cosette was inclined to be cheerful, Eponine inclined to be pessimistic, and Toussaint inclined to be bewildered. Without being seen or heard, Monsieur Fauchlevent picked up his National Guardsman’s uniform, went to change into it and went down the stairs. The portress, having heard about the fighting already, quickly procured for him a loaded gun and a full cartridge box, thinking to herself how terrible it was that such a kindly, tax-paying gentleman, so dedicated to the exercise of his civic duty, had been ruined and forced to flee his creditors in the middle of the night. She then thought, happily, that she had shown great wisdom in insisting upon payment for the full year in January.

Monsieur Fauchlevent knew nothing of this. He walked towards the markets and the rue de la Chanvrerie. He climbed out of the abyss to scale the great heights of the barricade.


	18. In which there is a police spy

The journals of the day which said that that nearly impregnable structure of the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, as they call it, reached to the level of the first floor, were mistaken. The fact is, that it did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet. It was built in such a manner that the combatants could, at their will, either disappear behind it or dominate the barrier and even scale its crest by means of a quadruple row of paving-stones placed on top of each other and arranged as steps in the interior. On the outside, the front of the barricade, composed of piles of paving-stones and casks bound together by beams and planks, which were entangled in the wheels of the overturned omnibus, had a bristling and inextricable aspect.

An aperture large enough to allow a man to pass through had been made between the wall of the houses and the extremity of the barricade which was furthest from the wine-shop, so that an exit was possible at this point. The pole of the omnibus was placed upright and held up with ropes at the very center of the barricade. Courfeyrac was affixing the flag to the pole, under Enjolras’s smiling direction, when he spotted a man in a National Guardsman’s uniform, making his way up the street.

“National Guard!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, the last knot holding the flag to the pole unraveling in his hands. He pulled a pistol from his tricolor sash and then, as the Guardsman grew closer, discovered that the Guardsman was not wearing a bearskin cap, but instead had his pure white hair billowing in the faint breeze. It could not be a scout, sent to investigate the weaknesses of the barricade. Courfeyrac exclaimed, “The devil! Is that Monsieur Fachlevent?”

Joly had clambered up beside Courfeyrac, carbine raised, and said, “It has stobbed raining, it must be my eyes. Glaucomia on tob ob this awful cold!”

“No, I always recognize men who punch me in the nose,” said Bossuet, in his usual position by Joly. “That’s Monsieur Fauchlevent.”

Courfeyrac had already lowered his pistol and now leaned over the barricade and said, “Monsieur Fauchlevent, not that I am not delighted to see you, but we’re... in the middle of a revolution....”

“I come as a volunteer,” he said.

“Enter then, citizen,” said Enjolras, climbing to the summit of the barricade and tying the last knot himself.

It had been less than an hour since they had technically finished building the barricade and Jehan was still trying to perfect both an apocalyptic sonnet and the entrance and exit between the barricade and the houses. He wrenched open a door he had been trying to lean on this gap and Monsieur Fauchlevent passed through.

The sight of a National Guardsman already defecting filled all on the barricade with great joy. The men pouring lead into bullet molds paused in their work, the women rolling lint and bandages ran to the windows of the cafe and exclaimed amongst themselves that it would be another 1830, right enough, and the students, all testing out the stability of the main barricade, which formed a right angle from the Corinthe and shut off the Rue de la Chanvrerie, momentarily took their eyes off of the mass of furniture, paving stone, and repurposed omnibus to delight in the sight of a uniform swelling their ranks. The other barricade closed the Rue Mondetour, on the side of the Rue de Cygne. This last barricade, which was very narrow, was constructed only of casks and paving-stones. There were about fifty workers on it; thirty were armed with guns; for, on their way, they had effected a wholesale loan from an armorer's shop, and one tall man directing the final placement of casks. These men were too bent on their task to notice the new recruit, and Monsieur Fauchlevent was too occupied by Cosette’s letters to take more than a cursory glance at them. His attention was for Courfeyrac, who had neatly leapt off the barricade, landed on his feet as gracefully as Cosette’s cat, and greeted him warmly.

“My dear sir-- I had no idea you shared my political sympathies! Were you in 1830 as well? We owe much to the Guardsmen-- or I suppose they were not technically Guardsmen then, for all that Charles X had neglected to take back their guns and arms.”

“By word, it does us good to see that uniform on our side of the barricade,” agreed Joly, sneezing. “A bost politic antidote for flagging spirits!”

Monsieur Fauchlevent said, “Boy-- not you,” this to the puzzled Joly, “--the de Courfeyrac boy-- I want to speak with you.”

Courfeyrac was faintly puzzled. “Enjolras is leading this barricade-- I believe you have met before--”

“It is a personal matter,” replied Monsieur Fauchlevent, looking and sounding as displeased as he felt. “I wish to speak with _you._ ”

It occurred first to Bahorel, who, with the dubious assistance of Gavroche, was scattering broken glass before the barricade, that Monsieur Fauchlevent meant to use his carbine to threaten someone _other_ than those loyal to Louis-Philippe. “ _Really_?” demanded Bahorel. “Courfeyrac, you’ve been playing with that infernal green ribbon for months now, _surely_ you managed to settle your private affairs before this!”

“Oh God,” said Bossuet, trying not to laugh, “of course _you_ would be chased by an angry father _to a barricade._ ”

Courfeyrac seized upon the least awful offense he could. “Look, if Cosette-- that is, if your daughter, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, kneed you or some other gentleman who annoyed her between the legs, that’s because she accidentally kneed me one evening and I feel twitching to the floor. I swear to God I haven’t corrupted your daughter.”

“Much,” muttered the unhelpful Bossuet.

Courfeyrac glared at him.

Monsieur Fauchlevent dragged Courfeyrac farther from his friends. “Have you been meeting my daughter without a chaperone?”

“No,” Courfeyrac lied.

Monsieur Fauchlevent could look terrifying when he wanted to, and he certainly wanted to now.

“That is,” Courfeyrac improvised hastily, “I... always... considered God our chaperone.”

“ _What_?”

“Indeed sir, the eye of God was constantly upon us,” Courfeyrac continued on, a little wildly. “Reminding us never to, er, trespass into the… gardens forbidden to an unmarried man and an unmarried woman. We were very conscious of propriety and what we could and could not do-- I assure you sir, nothing irrevocable happened.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent did not look convinced.

“Now really,” expostulated Courfeyrac. “I love and respect your daughter-- if I had my majority I would have asked her to marry me outright. No one seems to think I know how to pay the proper addresses to a convent educated girl--”

“--at night, after having come through a secret passage on the Rue de Babylone?”

“I don’t suppose this could be categorized as a shotgun wedding,” said Bossuet, to Joly, “but surely that it only because the good Monsieur Fauchlevent has a carbine instead.”

“You should _shut up_ ,” said Courfeyrac, turning to Bossuet. Near where Bossuet sat on the barriacde, however, there was a figure familiar to Monsieur Fauchlevent.

It was Javert.

Javert was not looking at him, or at anything in particular. He was trying very hard to look unobtrusive as he walked away from the second barricade. If any one of the students had taken their attention away from their guns and their barricade and sat for five minutes, looking at Javert, they would have realized he was not one of them. As it was, Courfeyrac followed Monsieur Fauchlevent’s line of sight and said, a little uncertainly, “I’ve never seen that fellow before. I wonder if he means to be here?”

“Pere Mabeuf seems to mean to be here,” said Combeferre, walking up with his arms full of carbines. “Revolution changes men, reveals them as who they are. Courfeyrac, if you are done with the flag, we’ll bring out a table to distribute cartridges.” Combeferre became aware of Courfeyrac’s harassed look, and the readily apparent cause for it. “Ah... Monsieur Fauchlevent, hello. I never knew you held republican views.”

“He holds very traditional views about his daughter, however,” said Bossuet, and the unknown man was immediately forgotten-- Courfeyrac making a quick escape towards the cartridges, Bossuet relating Courfeyrac’s tribulations, Combeferre listening, not entirely unsurprised, while handing out guns to those who did not have them, Joly being called away to take Enjolras’s place at the summit of the barricade as Enjolras went to assign sentinels, and Monsieur Fauchlevent torn between watching Javert and watching Courfeyrac scramble up onto a table.

Gavroche clambered down the barricade and turned to Jehan, who was still perfecting the entrance. “Look at that fellow. He grabbed me by the ear the other day, when I was just taking the air the other day near the Jena Bridge. He’s an inspector, I think. I know he is a police spy. Anyway, where’s the blond smoothface, I have a map in my head like he asked. I had to tell the big fellow first and he needed my help to put glass on the Rue Saint-Dennis.”

Jehan stared intently at Javert. “Gavroche-- are you sure?”

“Certain as I am that the Pope shouldn’t get to tell us when to eat eggs!” Then seeing the Jehan was contemplating some valiant action, Gavroche added, “He has a pistol. I saw him pull it on Montparnasse the other day.”

“The Rue Montparnasse?”

“No, Montparnasse. He needed a new coat for the funeral and was going to knife somebody, but the Inspector caught him at it and pulled out a pistol. That always beats a knife. There’s the blond smoothface-- you won’t kill the police spy until I can watch, will you?”

Jehan did not answer, as Javert was poking at the imperfectly hidden entrance to the Rue Saint-Dennis. He glanced up to see Jehan, a slim and gentle figure in deliberately clashing, garishily colored clothes from the last century, and clearly saw no threat. “I would leave off the door,” said Javert.

Jehan folded his arms across his plaid waistcoat. “Ah really? And why, good Inspector, should I do so?”

Javert smiled with a smile than which nothing more disdainful, more energetic, and more resolute could be seen in the world, and replied with haughty gravity, “I see how it is. Now jesters must take up the lances of knights?”

“And police spies the guise of good patriots?” replied Jehan.

Javert’s smile did not waver as he said, “Good guess.” And then, seeing that all the others were occupied with the barricade, he tipped his hat at Jehan and darted to the entrance.

Jehan physically launched himself at Javert with a savagery one would not think possible in so gentle a poet. He wrenched him away from the entrance. Javert, impatient, pried out a table leg from the barricade and wielded it like a police baton, striking at Jehan’s shoulders. Jehan did not expect the first blow and cried out, releasing the Inspector, but the second blow landed on the barricade itself. Jehan had dashed out of the way and grabbed the carbine he had propped on a nearby barrel.

Javert threw the stick away; by now the others had seen what was happening. Courfeyrac, on his table, had frozen while distributing cartridges, and there were noises above Javert, students running and climbing across the barricade to get to him. Javert had known himself constitutionally unfit for spy work, but an order had been an order, it had not occurred to him to disobey Gisquet, the Prefect of Police. He had learnt what he could and now he would do better to report it and follow out the second of his orders, to go investigate if there were any intrigues by the Jena Bridge. This flashed through his mind as Jehan grabbed for his carbine; Javert pulled out his pistol and shot it before the poet had a chance to aim his weapon.

Jehan fell backwards the with the force of the shot, his surprise writ across his expression as plainly as the vision of St. John, in glittering gold paint, written across the pages of a medieval manuscript. Javert had hardly pulled the trigger when he felt a hand land on his shoulder with the force of an eagle’s talon. Javert turned automatically, raising his pistol, but Javert’s opponent pushed him to the cobblestones.

Javert fell with a grimace and scrambled upright, grabbing for the abandoned table leg. His opponent however, had decided that they were in a _savate_ match instead of a _canne de combat_ fight, and with a fast, twisting snap kick from the hip, he had kicked Javert in the head with enough force to stun him. Javert lay on the cobblestones, dazed, half-tempted to allow himself to sink into unconsciousness, but he came to himself to see a young blond student, slender and almost girlish in appearance, standing above him with a carbine in one hand. A burly boxer of a student leapt down beside him, and soon several printers, with the enormous forearms and ink-stained fingers that proclaimed that they spent their days operating the levers to lift and lower the granite printing stone, joined him.

“Are you a spy?” asked the blond student.

“I am an agent of the authorities,” replied Javert. He dimly saw the National Guardsman start. Javert was mildly surprised by this reaction; he hadn’t thought he’d made a very convincing spy.

“What is your name?” demanded the blond.

“Javert.”

The printers pinned him to the cobblestones while the burly student searched him. They unearthed his badge and his orders. Enjolras found a piece of paper in his pocket and read aloud, “As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspector Javert will make sure, by special supervision, whether it is true that the malefactors have instituted intrigues on the right bank of the Seine, near the Jena bridge.” There was also a little round card pasted between two pieces of glass, and bearing on one side the arms of France, engraved, and with this motto: Supervision and vigilance, and on the other this note: "JAVERT, inspector of police, aged fifty-two," and the signature of the Prefect of Police, M. Gisquet.

“The flea not only bit, but _killed_ the dog,” said Gavroche, hanging, one handed, off of an iron railing jutting out of the barricade. He was distinctly triumphant. “ _Now_ the flea jumps--” he did, Bahorel catching him as almost an afterthought “--and the mad dog is shot. You will give me his gun, will you not? I gave you the musician, I demand the clarinet. Hullo, is he alright?”

Both Combeferre and Joly were tending to Jehan. Joly loudly blew his nose in response, but Combeferre more helpfully said, “He was hit in the shoulder, he is only wounded.”

“Ah! But it feels like it!” protested Jehan. “the ball has shattered my shoulder-- augh!”

“We must apply pressure to stop the bleeding,” said Joly, speaking clearly now that he had re-balanced his humors and rid himself of all the phlegm in his nasal passages. “Be still Jehan, the shoulder is a bad place to be hit.”

Jehan was suddenly frightened. The ball had embedded itself in his right shoulder and he could not move his arm, despite his attempts to do so.  The search ended, the printers, led by Bahorel, lifted Javert to his feet, bound his arms behind his back, marched him into the cafe and fastened him to that celebrated post in the middle of the room which had formerly given the wine-shop its name. Jehan watched this almost feverishly and began muttering to himself.

“What’s wrong, Jehan?” asked Joly, bending to put his ear near Jehan’s lips.

But Jehan was reciting poetry, of a decidedly tamer mold than his usual. “Do you recall our sweet life--”

Monsieur Fauchlevent had watched the procession with almost as much anxiety as Jehan and then withdrew to a corner of the barricade. Courfeyrac jumped from his table and, under Combeferre’s direction, improvised a stretcher from a signboard. They carried Jehan into the cafe and set him very gently on a table, where Combeferre, assisted by the sniffling Joly, bent to his work.

Enjolras had been talking in a low voice with Gavroche and, after dispersing the others, setting a watch on Javert and setting Feuilly on the second barricade, to examine how Javert might have sabotaged it, motioned to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was glad of the distraction. Jehan was almost entirely unlike himself, lying on the table passive and supine, his outrageous clothes all cut away. Bahorel was still by him, trying to rally Jehan with gruff taunts and snatches of bad poetry, but Jehan did not reply. Jehan had finished his poem and lapsed into a dazed silence.

“What says the gamin?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Something I had not expected,” said Enjolras. “He is full of useful information-- perhaps his keen eye might help us once again.” He raised his voice. “Combeferre- how goes it?”

Combeferre had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up but, despite this, or perhaps because of it and the blood splattered on his forearms, looked very much like the doctor he hoped to be. “Joly-- keep applying pressure, call me if the bleeding does not stop.” He made his way swiftly to Enjolras and Courfeyrac and, at Enjolras’s signal, said nothing until they had gone upstairs.

“I worry he may lose the use of his arm,” said Combeferre. “The shoulder, as Joly mentioned, is a bad place to be hit. We have yet to stop the bleeding and I fear the socket may be--” here his doctoral indifference, the only thing imperfectly cultivated in all Combeferre’s years of study, failed him, and he had to pause. He managed to continue on, with a voice that trembled, “--may have been shattered.”

Courfeyrac’s first impulse was to fling his arms about Combeferre, but Enjolras held him back. If one drew attention to Combeferre’s pain, it consumed him. Courfeyrac belatedly remembered an evening when Combeferre had operated on a child, dying of starvation, whose stomach had been full of mud. Courfeyrac had only touched his shoulder, lightly, as a reminder that Combeferre was not alone to witness the cruelties of the world, but Combeferre had broken down and wept.

After a moment, Combeferre regained his usual, gentle calm and said, “How do the other barricades lie?”

Enjolras carefully moved some bottles of vitrol stacked on a table. Grantaire was asleep at the other, and all the other furniture had been thrown down to use on the barricade. Courfeyrac silently withdrew the map of Paris he had put in his trouser pocket when he returned to his apartment for bullet molds. Enjolras pried several splinters of wood out of the table and arranged them on the map.

Courfeyrac spun a chair around so that he could sit and lean his arms over the back. It took him a moment to realize where the barricades were. The one by Saint-Merry he understood, but the others.... “What? _That’s_ where the other groups built barricades?”

Combeferre interrupted this train of thought by saying, “And you are _sure_ Gavroche gave us the correct street names?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, “he nearly refused me, but leapt over the barricade when Bahorel asked him to do it.”

Courfeyrac added, “You can trust a gamin to know the streets of Paris. If he spots a barricade on the Ile de la Cité... but that doesn’t make sense. Why the devil would you build a barricade _there_? It could be attacked from all sides and very easily cut out from all the other barricades...”

Combeferre asked, in a very strained tone, “What did Gavroche say the barricades looked like?”

Enjolras placed his hands by the edge of the map and leaned over it, almost delicately, like a dancer about to improvise some brilliant, but untested leap. “Unusually sturdy, with a preponderance of desks and filing cabinets, with all the occupants still in their houses and, I quote, ‘not a single omnibus.’”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at him in stunned disbelief.

“Goddammit,” said Courfeyrac, finding his voice first.

“I ought to have expected this,” Combeferre murmured. “Steal one revolution, why not likewise steal a revolt? A piece of Machiavellian logic and plausibility. Discredit the liberal opposition, decimate and dishearten what forces remain to them after the cholera epidemic--”

Enjolras contemplated his map with all its little improvised barricades silently, as a priest consults his holy books. But the answers he found offered no reassurance. He only said, “Courfeyrac, you are a good judge of character. Will our police spy speak the truth if we ask him to confirm our suspicions?”

“It will be easy to tell if he’s lying,” Courfeyrac replied, with a great effort of self-control. “That is not the same, but....”

“It is enough,” said Enjolras.

When they asked, Javert only smiled. It was a grim smile, closer to the snarl of a wolf, but in it Courfeyrac could see the great, bloodstained jaws of a beast about to devour him. Courfeyrac nearly collapsed into a chair, and Combeferre’s knuckles were white against his skin, where he gripped the handle of his pistol. Enjolras was the one who remained icily calm, still, sure, in command of himself.

“The Republic thanks you for your cooperation,” he said and, flicking his gaze to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, invited them to follow.

“Your Republic will not last the night,” said Javert. “The National Guard will not join you; they like Louis-Philippe.”

Courfeyrac muttered, “How unfortunate that pears should still be in season!”

Once they were alone upstairs, Enjolras said, “We must preserve, at all costs, the goodwill of those in the surrounding houses.”

“Plagued by the bourgeois king wielding an umbrella instead of a sceptre,” lamented Courfeyrac. “And yet we are the ones rained upon by grapeshot. I could make a joke about trickle-down economics but there have been enough troubles with plague water in Paris.”

Combeferre looked around at the doors and windows of the back room, making sure that they weren’t overheard. “What should we tell the others? What _can_ we tell them? Inspector Javert has neither confirmed nor denied our hypothesis and without further evidence, that we cannot get at this stage, I cannot, in good conscience, call our theory anything _but_ a theory-- a reasonable theory-- there are, in all likelihood, some barricades not beset by spies, or some that have caught out said spies, as we have-- I have met Charles Jeanne at Saint--Merry, he is one of us--”

“Then say what you know to be true,” said Enjolras. “It is unlikely, but there is still a chance our barricade will survive until dawn. If not....” He paused, and seemed to search the horizon for answers. “As I said, make sure we do not lose the goodwill of the surrounding houses. I have asked Feuilly to take charge of the Corinthe, I will ask him to help set up an escape route. He is a clever man, and capable. He will manage it. We will fight again, when our numbers have not been destroyed by cholera, and when the middle classes realize that they are as trapped in an unjust system as their social inferiors. Courfeyrac--” Enjolras touched Courfeyrac on the shoulder, lightly. “You are pale.”

“I had red hair as a child,” said Courfeyrac. “That faded. Apparently my complexion did too.”

Combeferre looked about to say something, but he saw how Courfeyrac was leaning into Enjolras’s touch and instead offered a brief, kind smile. ‘I’ll go check on Jehan.”

“Thank you,” said Enjolras, and there passed between them a look of perfect understanding.

Enjolras waited, patiently, almost gently, until Courfeyrac said, “I suppose-- I had a thought-- I have told you about Cosette?”

A ghost of a smile. “Many times.”

“I distinctly remembering thinking, as I was helping turn over the omnibus, ‘well now, Gauvain, this is a new world you’re winning, all misery will be fought and cured and happiness--” His voice cracked. Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “And the world might one day be happy. We might work towards our own happiness instead of the preservation of property and power over one’s neighbors. _I_ might be happy. _I_ might marry for love instead of for money or status or familial pressure. There might be a chance that Cosette--” He could not continue.

Enjolras grasped his shoulder. “If you see a chance to leave, take it.” Then, with a small smile, “I believe Monsieur Fauchlevent will insist upon it.”

After a moment he felt himself capable of meeting Enjolras’s serene blue gaze, so reminiscent of Cosette’s. In his eyes were the same depths of compassion and understanding.

Enjolras smiled and squeezed his shoulder again. “You will live Courfeyrac-- you will live and be happy.”

“Ah, don’t perjure yourself now,” said Courfeyrac. “This leaves you with very little time to confess and make absolution.”

“I never make promises I cannot keep,” Enjolras replied, simply. “Come---” He paused. They had been leaning in towards each other, in the tactile intimacy that characterized their friendship, and now Enjolras abruptly pulled back and looked out the window. A sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this, the men on the barricade had gone silent.

It took Courfeyrac a minute to place the noise. “National Guardsmen or soldiers?”

“Guardsmen.”

“They won’t come over to our side, like in ‘30,” said Courfeyrac, almost bewildered by this.

Enjolras shook his head, his golden hair floating about his shoulders. “No. That does not mean they will not in 1840, or at some later date. Let us to the barricade-- yes, Feuilly come. Take the window, watch their movements.”

Feuilly nodded. He had six sharpshooters behind him and said, “Combeferre mentioned we might have to take to the rooftops.”

“If you mount the table you can reach the ceiling,” said Enjolras.

Feuilly examined his men. “Cornud--” this was a burly fellow, who spent his days raising and lowering presses “--ensure us safe passage to the roof, if you please.”

Courfeyrac followed Enjolras down the stairs and played with Cosette’s ribbon, winding it through his fingers, twisting it around his wrist as she had first done. He knew Monsieur Fauchlevent was watching him, but he did not particularly care. Monsieur Fauchlevent’s disapproval, the police spy, Jehan’s injuries, Gavroche’s report—they all weighed heavily upon him and in the stress of upcoming battle, he could not be sanguine. For the first time, he had not believed Enjolras. It seemed impossible to live and be happy, and now Courfeyrac was worried Monsieur Fauchlevent would be grievously injured—and it would be entirely Courfeyrac’s fault for dragging him onto a barricade. There was only darkness above, no ribbon of friendly sky, no chance of all the things he had hoped and worked for since 1830. There was only the memory of private happiness, an enclosed garden on the Rue Plumet where he and Cosette practiced equality and played at running their own little republic, where there was no rule but love. It would be death or jail or England—Courfeyrac held tightly to the ribbon. Memories of happiness were all that were left to him.

It would, perhaps, have comforted him to know that as soon as he climbed onto the barricade, Monsieur Fauchlevent stopped watching him. For the barricade awoke, or so it seemed to Monsieur Fauchlevent -- some massive living thing, its sharp, glass shard teeth gleaming in the lantern light, its weary bones creaking as students and workers scrambled over its broken back, breathing life into its assortment of multitudinous, broken limbs. The sound of hands seeking their guns became audible.

Two sentinels had fallen back some time ago and now were consulting with Enjolras, how had taken his place at the center of the barricade. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the Lane des Precheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke.

Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.

Most of the insurgents were kneeling inside the large barricade, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Monsieur Fauchlevent sat on the stoop of the Corinthe and stopped Gavroche as he tried to run into the cafe.

“Boy,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “I told you not to come back here.”

“I told you not to go and break your back but here you are where you’re most likely to be trouble to everyone,” replied Gavroche impishly. “Let me pass, you old knee-head, I want the spy’s pistol, it was promised to me.”

“It is unloaded,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. Then, thinking of a good way to keep Gavroche away from the fighting, he said, “Let me show you how to load it-- hold a moment.”

The footsteps had stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.

A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted, to the accompanying click of guns being lowered into position: “ _Qui vive_?”

This was an unusual question-- who lived? Monsieur Fauchlevent almost didn’t know the answer, he was too caught up in which one of the protesters here would die—Gavroche? Combeferre? The de Courferyac boy? Himself?

But Enjolras knew the answer. Who lives?

In a ringing voice, he cried, “The French Revolution!”


	19. In which Courfeyrac hunts pigeons

Monsieur Fauchelevent didn’t know if it was that loud cry, ringing through the narrow street like a church bell on Easter Sunday, or the subsequent cry of fire and the fearful detonation that burst forth, but he felt himself awaken. The torn-up streets, the gutted cafe, the dark evening made yet more obscure in the clouds of drifting smoke, the revolutionaries flickering before his vision in the light of the torch, the scent of rain, mud and gunpowder, the faint ringing in his ears from the gunfire-- all of these details seemed to overtake his senses. There was only this barricade rising above the darkened, smoke-filled abyss that had once been the Rue Saint-Denis, the students winking in and out of existence as the flickering light from the torch and the flashes from their guns briefly illuminated them. Monsieur Fauchlevent held Gavroche back as everyone began to reload, and looked immediately for the de Courfeyrac boy. Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men and fear seized him in iron bands-- was the de Courfeyrac boy wounded?

Courfeyrac was not, but when they appeared to be fighting against an entire regiment of Guardsmen, at the very least, how long could he stay unharmed?

Monsieur Fauchlevent felt almost resentful. He didn’t want to care about Gauvain de Courfeyrac, the young rogue that had seduced his daughter and made her long for things her loving father could not provide. Monsieur Fauchlevent could provide no entry to society. He was a peasant and only good for hard labor, hadn’t all the years in the chain gang taught him as much?

“Come,” he said to Gavroche, “help me move the wounded first and we will see to your gun-- careful there, they may fire again.” Combeferre was moving an unconscious man away from the barricade. Monsieur Fauchlevent said nothing, but took up the wounded man in his arms and carried him into the cafe, Gavroche helpfully picking up the man’s fallen hat and pistol.

Combeferre said, holding open the door to the cafe, “I thank you sir, for this and for staying on the barricade when your fellow Guardsmen have refused to join us.”

“You know why I am here,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, feeling somewhat surly. Despite himself, he was anxious over the de Courfeyrac boy. The pole holding up the flag had snapped and replacing the flag was exactly the sort of fool-hardy and gallant action that would appeal to someone named after a medieval knight.

“You are here for Courfeyrac,” said Combeferre, holding open the door to the cafe. “Well, whatever brought you here, wherever slight incidents God put in the way of other paths, I am glad to have you here-- Joly, how is Jehan?”

Joly was trying for good humor and lightness but he said, in too strained a tone, “Jehan will not stop bleeding and he no longer replies to my questions.”

“Go,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “This man hit his head to avoid a bullet, that is all. Jolly, or whatever your name is-- you will be wanted outside, there are injured men in the street, still.”

Joly was relieved to get away. He offered Monsieur Fauchlevent a sweet smile and exited, Gavroche following in his wake, waving his newly gained pistol. The gamin was gone before Monsieur Fauchlevent could put down the wounded man and think to chase after him.

Combeferre was nervous, this made him inclined to philosophize as Monsieur Fauchlevent propped up the unconscious man in a corner, and tried to avoid moving into Javert’s line of sight. They were alone in the café; the women had gone outside to help distribute cartridges and bandages and all the others were firing, either upstairs or on the barricade.

“I wonder, at times, what unites us as a race. Is it out capacity for feeling, or our capacity for rational thought?” Combeferre peeled away layers of bandages from Jehan’s shoulder. “We are capable of both, and we are blessed with the consciousness to recognize it. Jehan-- Jehan, you must have some opinion on the subject, some poet to cite, some Greek god to adulate. Come now, do you worship Aphrodite or Athena?”

Jehan’s gaze flicked up to Combeferre’s face, but he soon closed his eyes.

“Jehan, _please_.” Combeferre seemed to choke on the words. He pressed his lips together and pressed a new lint pad on the wound. The blood oozed out, but no amount of pressure seemed to stop that sluggish flow; the lint pad slowly turned dark red.

Monsieur Fauchlevent said, “I knew a good man once, who introduced me to the parable of the mustard seed. I would rather use the nettle. It has infinite uses. When the nettle is young, the leaf makes an excellent vegetable; when it is older, it has filaments and fibres like hemp and flax. Nettle cloth is as good as linen cloth. Chopped up, nettles are good for poultry; pounded, they are good for horned cattle. The seed of the nettle, mixed with fodder, gives gloss to the hair of animals; the root, mixed with salt, produces a beautiful yellow coloring-matter. Moreover, it is an excellent hay, which can be cut twice. And what is required for the nettle? A little soil, no care, no culture. Only the seed falls as it is ripe, and it is difficult to collect it. That is all. With the exercise of a little care, the nettle could be made useful; it is neglected and it becomes hurtful. It is exterminated. How many men resemble the nettle! There are no such things as bad plants or bad men.”

“There are no bad seeds, only bad cultivators.” Combeferre looked down at Jehan and then went to go pick up more lint and bandages. The ones on Jehan’s shoulder had been soaked through. “I would agree with you. There are no seeds of evil, only a society which cultivates poverty, cruelty oppression-- we had hoped to end it.”

“You still might,” replied Monsieur Fauchlevent. “Your friend, there--”

Jehan had stopped breathing.

Combeferre raced over-- Monsieur Fauchlevent couldn’t bear the naked pain on Combeferre’s face and instead went out the door to find the other medical student. Joly was reloading a carbine, but, seeing Monsieur Fauchlevent’s expression, abandoned it to Bossuet and came running, stopping only to help another wounded man into the cafe. Monsieur Fauchlevent hesitated by the door. The shooting was growing sporadic now, the barricade had withstood the first assault and the National Guardsmen were debating a second line of attack. The insurgents were occupied with an old man mounting the barricade, clutching the fallen red flag. Monsieur Fauchlevent would be more useful indoors. He took a last look at the de Courfeyrac boy, who had lost his hat _again,_ and went inside in time to see Joly shaking Jehan, saying, “No Prouvaire please-- you must-- it can’t end-- you can’t be--”

_“_ Let him be, Joly,” said Combeferre. He had found an old shawl of Madame Hucheloup’s and flung it unseeingly over the corpse of their friend. It covered only Jehan’s legs and Combeferre had to turn around and push his glasses up into his hair, so he could momentarily hide his eyes.  

Combeferre was deeply upset by the loss of his friend, at the failure of his knowledge. It was a failure that would eat at his soul forever, like acid through metal-- Monsieur Fauchlevent knew that feeling and knew it well. He thought of Petit Gervais.

“Greater love hath no man than this,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, touching him lightly on the arm, “that he lay down his life for his friends.”

Combeferre bowed his head forward. He wore his hair longer at the top, and though he frequently ran a hand through it to keep it out of his eyes, his hair often fell forward to hide his expression. “Perhaps it’s that, then-- that we can love, and are willing to go so far for those we love.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent remembered Combeferre's attempts at philosophy, to comfort himself in the face of such bloody terror. “What is it you love?”

“The future,” said Combeferre. “Humanity, in all its potential. We are continuously marching towards the light. There must be progress, and if we are... if Jehan… if I must die to see that done, then I will go willingly into that tomb, for it will be flooded with the dawn.”

Several workers entered the cafe, holding up the body of the old man who had mounted the barricade with the flag. Enjolras was accompanying them. He flicked his gaze away momentarily from the body to Combeferre, facing Monsieur Fauchlevent and not Jehan, Joly, in tears, and the shawl half draped over Jehan’s legs.

“I will get the de Courfeyrac boy,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent.

Enjolras inclined his head. “And Bahorel-- the one with the red waistcoat. They were close.”

The de Courfeyrac boy had once again taken a position at the center of the barricade. They were waiting out the now sporadic firing, tossing back quips and taunts instead of bullets. Lead was scarce but ammunition was not. The de Courfeyrac boy spotted Monsieur Fauchlevent and leaped down once again. He landed heavily this time, almost stumbling and said, with all his customary lightness absent, “It’s Jehan, isn’t it?”

“Which is Bahorel?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent. The boxer in the red waistcoat turned, hearing this, and gestured at a printer to replace him. Bahorel scrambled down the barricade and, along with a small procession of law and medical students, disappeared into the cafe.

It always struck Monsieur Fauchlevent how very individualistic, how very limiting grief made one. Joly could not hide his tears or be comforted out of them, and Bossuet tried to say something, anything, but could not. His voice had died with his friend. Bahorel rushed up at once to Jehan’s side and began manhandling the corpse, as if trying to pummel life back into it. The de Courfeyrac boy went at once to Combeferre and stood by his side. The de Courfeyrac boy looked anxious for the first time in Monsieur Fauchlevent’s memory, standing close to, but not touching Combeferre, and glancing rather at Enjolras than at the dead body of Jean Prouvaire.

Enjolras looked human to Monsieur Fauchlevent, another first- but that impression vanished quickly. Enjolras lifted his golden head, listened intently and then went to the window of the cafe. “Gavroche!”

“They are _not_ bringing a canon,” cried the gamin, in a voice of rather bratty triumph. “ _Told_ you, you old bear of a printer. They are attacking!”

“Go,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “I will guard the bodies.”

Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel ran tumultuously from the wine-shop. It was almost too late. They saw a glistening density of bayonets undulating above the barricade. Municipal guards of lofty stature were making their way in, some striding over the omnibus, others through the cut. Bahorel, enraged by the death of Jehan, lead the main assault, killing two Guards with one, very short-range shot, Enjolras leading the others in a volley of rifle fire.

The moment was critical. It was that first, redoubtable moment of inundation, when the stream rises to the level of the levee and when the water begins to filter through the fissures of dike. A second more and the barricade would have been taken. Even after the assault had been beaten back, the defense was not certain; Courfeyrac was the only one to run from the barricade, and that was only to grab more cartridges and to swear viciously in Provencal when he saw the box was now empty.

“Take these,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, handing over his cartridge box. “Boy—” but that no longer seemed right “—Courfeyrac, be careful out there, your life isn’t your own to risk.”

Courfeyrac was almost too overwhelmed to understand his meaning. “Ah! A Faustian bargain is it, my life for these cartridges?”

Monsieur Fauchlevent thought of his candlesticks. “There have been worse bargains.”

“Then my life is yours,” Courfeyrac said, promptly, “if I can buy a few more minutes in the lives of my friends.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent momentarily regretted that while the Bishop had bought his soul for God, Monsieur Fauchlevent could do no more than buy this young man’s life for his daughter. But Courfeyrac raced through the door and disappeared into the dark and the smoke outside. The bargain was made.

But, still, Monsieur Fauchlevent knew himself no equal to the Bishop. He wondered if this was the last time he would see Courfeyrac alive-- a streak of black waistcoat and white shirt and bare forearms and auburn hair, disappearing into gray. Monsieur Fauchlevent turned to the corpses; someone had put another black shawl over the old man, but the student lay sprawled where Bahorel had last embraced him. Monsieur Fauchlevent gently moved the body into a more comfortable position. The student had a book of poetry in his pocket; Monsieur Fauchlevent took it out and folded his hands over it.

“Don’t think I haven’t an eye on you, Valjean,” said Javert. Monsieur Fauchlevent turned in alarm. Javert’s smile was wolfish. “Yes, I know you. I cannot, however, guess as to why you are here. You took such pains to disappear with that prostitute’s daughter.”

“She is none of your concern,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent.

After a moment, Javert snorted. “Ah, you are always the same. You will forever be preyed upon by the undeserving, and upon the flimsy pretext of aiding them, slide into the illegal actions that so appeal to your nature. You are here on _behalf_ of the prostitute’s daughter. What, has that young rebel with the cartridges impregnated her?”

“Show some respect,” Monsieur Fauchlevent barked, pointing his gun at Javert before he could master his sudden fury. “She is a good girl. She was raised in a convent and her mother was a martyr.”

Javert said, rather dryly, “Oh yes, of course. I am sure the good nuns were thrilled to be educating the ward of a convict, who, coincidentally, is also the daughter of a prostitute.”

“They did not know,” Monsieur Fauchlevent said, after a moment. Shouts and the sound of gunfire had been drifting into the cafe, but they seemed louder. Monsieur Fauchlevent lowered his rifle and picked up a penknife from the table.

Javert eyed it. “And what is that? Ah yes, knives were always your style. Though, Jean the Jack, I am disappointed with you. You used to hide your misdeeds so well in Montreuil-sur-mer. Surely it has occurred to you that if you shot me, I would just be a victim of revolutionary justice?”

“It is God’s place alone to judge,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “You say-- and keep saying, ‘this is how you act,’ and ‘this is your style,’ and ‘you used to do this,’ but you are wrong-- and always have been wrong. That is not me. I am not that man-- I am not 24601.”

“Then what are you?” asked Javert.

“A man,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, simply. “I grew up a peasant, I starved, I stole, I was punished and I was forgiven. The Bishop of Digne bought my soul for God. He paid for my goodness with his silver and I have never ceased to strive to be worthy of the price paid for me. I am a father-- my daughter is engaged to one of the students, she regularly visits his family in the Faubourg Saint-Germaine, she is sweet and well-behaved and-- and so much stronger than I ever thought she could be.” He cleared his throat. “She is the best of my life, she is all the goodness demanded of me by the Bishop of Digne. That is who I am. What I am.”

Javert’s gaze was unblinking. Monsieur Fauchlevent was torn and unhappy. He could so easily ensure Cosette’s happiness forever, could so easily ensure his own safety--

“And now I will cut your bonds,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “You will be free.”

“And why?” asked Javert. “So you can fool a respectable family of landowners into accepting the daughter of a whore? You know I will hunt you down and tell them what you are.”

“My daughter has a dowry,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “She is the heiress to all I earned in Montreuil-sur-mer.”

Javert shrugged. “Well then! And that makes it all better?”

A little dryly, Monsieur Fauchlevent said, “I was a mayor, I used to deal with aristocrats. For the half-a-million francs in her dowry, they would forgive my daughter for more irregularities than merely having a convict for a father.”

This was very true and Javert, with outsider’s look into, and understanding of, society could not argue with it. He was, however, confused as to why Valjean had not yet killed him.  “As I said, I will name you and any other members of the barricade that survive. Your daughter may have neither father nor bridegroom-- only a very unpleasant past.”

“She knows her past,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “She walks with the weight of that knowledge.”

Javert began to wonder if he had given too much credit to Jean the Jack for years-- Valjean was behaving contrary to every instinct of self-preservation. But no, Jean Valjean had been clever as the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, he had been intelligent, even, inventing a method for constructing glass beads, creating an enormous factory-- and he had certainly been _inventive_ when he successfully evaded police capture by apparently taking shelter at a convent-- “Ah ha,” said Javert. “Inventive as ever. You want to deal. You may as well shoot me. If I survive, nothing will stop me from fulfilling my duties.”

“Why do you not hear me?” asked Valjean. “I am telling you, _I know_ what you will do.”

“Then _why_ you are determined to free me?” Javert was bewildered. “How do you _live,_ Valjean? Your decisions defy reason.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent looked at the door, still shut, the gunsmoke and shouting shielding their conversation. “I shall tell you how I live, then, Monsieur l’Inspector. Every morning my daughter and I wake early and take a little milk or bread. We go to mass some days, but most every day after that we work in the garden or go for a walk in the Luxembourg. Sometimes we walk together, sometimes my daughter walks with her friend from the convent. We take a second breakfast, and then go about the business of the parish. We feed the hungry, we clothe the naked, we tend to the sick. Every afternoon we alleviate some of the misery that plagued us both, earlier in our lives. We recall the past, we try to better the present. In the evenings she is sometimes invited to dinners or parties or balls. You should see my daughter when she waltzes with her young man, you would swear you saw April in a maiden’s form. And she is popular too-- she has a sweet voice, she practices at the pianoforte and is always willing to play dances for the others, people like her, they feel an intense good will towards her. We go home and pray together before going to sleep. That is it. That is all. There is nothing objectionable or illegal in it. You may ask our servant, I will give you her name and address if you let me free you.”

Javert returned to his point: “I will still arrest you. And the boy, if he lives.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent nodded. “You can take me into custody, I only ask that you give me enough time to ensure my daughter has her dowry in hand. The boy will not be in prison long, he has family.” This last was said bitterly, but Monsieur Fauchlevent could not help it.

Javert refused to look at him.

“Why will you not let me help you?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent, dismayed. “All men desire mercy--”

“I do not,” said Javert. “I desire only to be irreproachable. And I flatter myself that I have been. You have sinned, you seek mercy; I have not, I seek justice.”

“But all men sin-- are born in sin,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “You must accept help if you are born into this world. It is very cruel if you do not recognize and accept the goodness of others.”

There were footsteps. Monsieur Fauchlevent looked up, iron-edged fear leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

“The barricade has fallen,” said Combeferre, rushing in, a flood of students and workers behind him.

“Ah yes,” said Javert, “but I was expecting the blond fellow.”

He did not have long to wait. Enjolras came in last, his golden hair flying about his handsome face, his throat and forearms bare. He, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel shut the door and piled themselves bodily against it. Feuilly appeared on the staircase, and looked questioningly at Enjolras. Enjolras nodded. A porter rushed to take Enjolras’s place at the door.

Enjolras said to the crowd, “Follow Feuilly, and be careful. Go in groups no larger than three, go in a different direction than the group before you.” He turned then to Javert. “I will make sure you will live to fight again.”

In that moment all was strange to Monsieur Fauchlevent; Courfeyrac seemed to have lost twenty years, Monsieur Fauchlevent could see the boy he had been in his expression, though Courfeyrac pressed himself bodily against the door of the cafe so that the others could run up the stairs; the polymath Combeferre, so philosophic, so used to healing injury, was firing out a window with unerring speed and accuracy, his expression as grim as some of Monsieur Fauchlevent’s companions on the chain gang; the young leader of the barricade, Enjolras, who had fought with all the fierce skill of a Marseilles sailor, had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis. His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which, as the ancient world viewed the matter, befit Justice.

“I promised you that you would be shot ten minutes before the fall of the barricade,” said Enjolras.

The gleam in Javert’s eyes was malicious. “And I had thought you wouldn’t have the courage. Do you think you will last ten minutes now?”

Enjolras’s expression was akin to that of the avenging angels Monsieur Fauchlevent had seen in stained glass windows. “You shot and killed Jean Prouvaire. Do you think it was right for you to infiltrate out barricade, seek to gain our trust, and assassinate the dearest, the most valiant of our members? And, having caused the death of one of us, do you think I will let you live to name the survivors of this barricade and cause the death of all the others?”

“Jehan was a poet,” snarled Bahorel, coming up to Enjolras’s right with a pistol. “He loved nature, he loved everyone-- he would not have killed _you._ ”

“Then show him some mercy, for Jean Prouvaire’s sake,” pleaded Monsieur Fauchlevent, on Enjolras’s left.

It was a terrifying moment for Javert; he saw two paths before him when he had previously only ever known one. Mercy and Justice gave him an odd sense of double vision, Valjean’s conversation had unsettled him. Here was Valjean, pleading for Javert’s life, even though he knew that if Javert lived, Valjean would go to the galleys and his daughter’s hopes would be ruined. He was a benevolent malefactor, merciful, gentle, helpful, clement-- he was a convict returning good for evil, giving back pardon for hatred, preferring pity to vengeance, preferring to ruin himself rather than to ruin his enemy, saving him who had smitten him, kneeling on the heights of virtue, more nearly akin to an angel than to a man. Javert was constrained to admit to himself that this monster existed.

Things could not go on in this manner.

“No,” said Javert. “Show me justice.”

Enjolras inclined his head. In the dying light of the lamps and candles his hair seemed to have the gleam of a halo, his implacable profile was set, his eyes closed briefly-- Justice was blind. She weighed and measured her scales. For each offence, there was retribution.

“You have thirty seconds to think or pray,” said Enjolras, after a glance at the door, the students piling themselves against it like a living barricade.  

“Let me,” said Bahorel, he had Javert’s badge in his other hand and had cracked the glass with the force of his grip. “Enjolras, let me kill the spy. This man killed Jean Prouvaire.”

“No, I will have the consequences of this fall upon myself alone.” Enjolras, like an avenging angel with a flaming sword, took the pistol from Bahorel and raised it to Javert’s heart.

Javert watched this all stoically. “That has been thirty seconds.”

Enjolras pulled the trigger.

Javert seemed to merely bow his head forward.

Monsieur Fauchlevent at last cut Javert’s bonds. The police badge was lying on the ground next to Javert, where Bahorel had flung it. Monsieur Fauchlevent picked it up and put it on Javert’s chest, folding his hands over it as one normally folded a man’s hands over a crucifix.

Monsieur Fauchlevent did not notice the increased tumult around him until he heard Courfeyrac shout, “Run upstairs, the cafe is taken!” He looked up and saw a bayonet go through the splintering door and into the flesh of Courfeyrac’s upper arm. Courfeyrac staggered forward involuntarily, and the Guardsmen burst into the cafe.

Monsieur Fauchlevent rushed forward and yanked Courfeyrac out of the fray. The remaining students and workers fought tenaciously by the doorway. Monsieur Fauchlevent half-dragged Courfeyrac away from the fighting and towards the stairs, pushing the remaining women up the stairs, half-shoving fleeing students and workers before him. Courfeyrac was unresisting, still shocked that he had been wounded, that it was his blood falling in inaudible plips upon the staircase. Bahorel broke away from the mass of fighting with Gavroche under one arm and, seeing Monsieur Fauchlevent shoving everyone up the stairs, tossed Monsieur Fauchlevent an armful of squirming gamin. Bahorel physically blocked the staircase as they ran up.

“Let me go, let me fight!” shouted Gavroche. "I want to be with the big 'un, he needs me!"

“I’ll let you fight another time,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, fighting to keep his grip on the gamin. The revolutionaries in the room upstairs were escaping through a hole in the ceiling, Feuilly saying, “Groups of no larger than three, careful there—“

“Take the child,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, shoving the gamin into Feuilly’s arms. “Courfeyrac’s about to pass out.”

“Am not,” replied Courfeyrac, unconvincingly.

“We need you to scout before us,” said Feuilly, putting Gavroche on the table.

“Everyone needs us little ones to go first,” Gavroche said, appeased. “Fleas can jump very high—” but not quite high enough to reach the hole in the ceiling.

Combeferre entered the upstairs room just as Feuilly, standing on the table, pushed out the little gamin. Feuilly glanced over at them. “Most everyone’s out.”

“Go, we’ll follow,” said Combeferre.

Feuilly leapt up and managed to grasp onto the slanted edge of the roof. He swung his feet against the wall and used it to half walk his way up and through the uneven hole, before disappearing up and into the darkness beyond. Feuilly must had been a gamin before turning into a fan painter, reflected Monsieur Fauchlevent, his thoughts confused, only a gamin could be so at home with the rooftops of Paris.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” said Courfeyrac, looking at his arm. His entire sleeve was streaked with red. “Combeferre-- behind you!”

Monsieur Fauchlevent’s carbine had been abandoned downstairs; Combeferre drew a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and fired. The Guardsmen fell back, cursing, but then leapt up the stairs.

Combeferre ducked under the Guardsman’s lunge and, before Monsieur Fauchlevent could register Combeferre pulling the knife out of his boot, the National Guardsman screamed and fell down the stairs. The floorboards were red; Monsieur Fauchlevent was almost too tired, too startled to link cause with effect. It suddenly occurred to him that Combeferre, for all his reserve and mildness, could probably hold his own on a chain gang. “ _Go,_ ” hissed Combeferre, taking the Guardsman’s rifle.

“Not without you,” said Courfeyrac, though he was pale and clutched at his arm with bloody fingers.

“Your life is mine,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, trying to be as gruff as possible without reverting to the mannerisms of the chain gang. “I purchased it not half-an-hour ago, you will _go._ ”

“I do acknowledge my debt, but I physically cannot leave without Combeferre,” said Courfeyrac. “Feuilly’s gone off with the gamin and I can’t get out without someone on either side.”

“I’ll go first,” said Combeferre, as soon as he saw Enjolras fighting his way up the stairs. With Monsieur Fauchlevent’s help, Combeferre was on the roof in a matter of seconds. He peered down through the hole. “Monsieur Fauchlevent-- if you could boost up Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac could still manage getting up on the table, but couldn’t lift his wounded arm. Monsieur Fauchlevent, with his strength redoubled out of panic, grabbed Courfeyrac around the waist and pushed him up through the hole in the roof. Combeferre seized him by the shoulders and pulled until Courfeyrac could scramble up himself.

“You next,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, as Enjolras, using his empty gun like a _canne de combat,_ knocked out another Guardsmen with a _moulinet horizontale._

“If they capture me, they will not go after my friends,” said Enjolras.

“If they do not capture anyone at the barricade, there will be no chance of anyone being named,” replied Monsieur Fauchlevent. “You have no need to fall upon your sword.” He spotted another student asleep in the corner, just beginning to stir, and was almost moved to curse. Above him, Courfeyrac and Combeferre were peering down anxiously. Today was a day of awful choices-- did he leave the sleeping boy to die, or did he ensure that Courfeyrac escaped?

The Guardsmen were thundering up the stairs.

Enjolras took him by the arm and said, very quickly, “Courfeyrac is badly wounded, he was attacked on all sides by bayonets before we ran into the cafe. He will need your help to escape. I will wake Grantaire, I will cover your escape.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent began to protest.

“They have already taken Bahorel,” said Enjolras. “I will not be alone. And I promised Courfeyrac would live. Do not make me break my promise, citizen.”

The other student was standing, bleary eyed. Monsieur Fauchlevent, tired of struggling with the moral choice, allowed it to be made for him and levered himself out of the room. He glanced below to see Grantaire pick up one of the bars used to hold newspapers and then crouch into the _canne de combat_ stance known as the frog.

Enjolras stood tall, facing the door, his legs shoulder length apart, gripping his empty carbine in both hands. He glanced briefly away from the door to look at Grantaire, beside him. Monsieur Fauchlevent’s last glimpse of the two of them was Enjolras’s smiling profile, with an aureole of golden hair framing it, and Grantaire, squatting, staring up at Enjolras, waiting patiently for orders.

Feuilly had picked a good place for an escape hole; as soon as they crawled out, they could very easily hide behind several chimney stacks. Combeferre was trying very hard to check the shallow cuts and grazes from bayonets Courfeyrac had imperfectly hidden behind his now tattered tricolor sash, while simultaneously looking for Enjolras and keeping an eye out for National Guardsmen. It was difficult to see anything at all in the darkness. The canon fire had stopped, the torch had been put out, there was no hope of artificial illumination.  Combeferre took off his cravat and bound up Courfeyrac’s arm according to his best guess.

Courfeyrac was bewildered, trying desperately to keep hold of consciousness. It was elusive, only his throbbing arm and the strange, horrible abrasive feeling of his shirt against his torso kept him tethered to the present. Everything hurt, nothing made sense, he only wanted to sleep. He looked around, trying to remind himself of where he was. “Ah look, across the street.”

Illuminated by the moonlight, two figures were scrambling across the rooftops in tandem, followed by several other shadowy groups. The group of two had to be their _bini,_ their twin stars,Bossuet and Joly. Courfeyrac regretting speaking, however, as he spotted a National Guardsmen, pulling himself onto the roof in front of them.

Monsieur Fauchlevent was still looking down to see if any other student could be pulled up. Courfeyrac, wincing, felt for his pistol. Combeferre, not to be outdone, raised his rifle.

“De Courfeyrac?” asked the National Guardsman, shocked, peering up at them through the darkness.

Courfeyrac was dizzy, somehow, and his entire arm throbbed with pain, as if he was getting shot again and again. Monsieur Fauchlevent had to grasp his elbow to keep him from falling over. “Ah....” The man was very pale in the haze of gunsmoke, almost indistinct in the bad light; it helped Courfeyrac recognize him rather better than he would have at any other time. “Oh! D’Avrigny!”

D’Avrigny lowered his rifle slightly. “What are you doing here?”

Courfeyrac looked at his pistol. His mind was utterly blank. What the hell was he doing? “Um... hunting... pigeons.”

That seemed reasonable. Courfeyrac was dizzily satisfied with himself.

“Pigeons,” repeated d’Avrigny, uncertainly.

“Yes?”

“Terrible problem, pigeons,” said d’Avrigny, slowly. “You... must have been at it since this morning, after the funeral procession.”

“He’s a terrible shot,” agreed Combeferre, lowering his rifle.

“Great second,” said d’Avrigny. Then, after a moment, he said, “Are you still going to go work for my father?”

“It is intended I go to England,” said Courfeyrac, a little vaguely.

“I suppose you learnt your lesson,” said d’Avrigny, uncertainly.

“Oh yes, of course, you are quite right.” Courfeyrac agreed, without having any idea as to what he was agreeing to. He had entirely lost track of the conversation. The gunsmoke was making it very hard to breathe and he felt cold, but he didn’t want to shiver because his ribs stung each time he exhaled. His vision was hazy, from smoke and dizziness and darkness. Frighteningly, he lost sight of d’Avrigny for a moment and then, when the smoke from the street below cleared, Courfeyrac could not immediately recall who the National Guardsman was. “Ah....” The duel-- in the haze of the Bois de Boulogne-- d’Epinay shooting wide the mark. “How is your friend d’Epinay? Is he feeling any better?”

“He has gone to see his father in Gascony.” D’Avrigny lowered his gun. He stared at the three of them, crouching behind a cluster of chimney stacks and said, all in a rush, “My father almost never acknowledges me, he’s always so busy-- but he _wrote_ , he _wrote to me_ to say he was _proud_ of me for how I helped manage the duel, and what pleasure it gave him to once again start up a correspondence with the Baron de Beaulieu. I’m going to fire into the air above your heads, slide down the roof, there’s a lower roof right next to it. Go to England and-- and perhaps--” this with a desperately sad smile “--you might put my letters on the top of his correspondence every morning.”

“You have my word of honor,” said Courfeyrac, who needed only the vaguest understanding of events around him to still be gallant.

D’Avrigny raised his rifle; Combeferre led the hasty scramble down the roof and onto another. The gunshot echoed behind them. Monsieur Fauchlevent kept his hand on Courfeyrac’s elbow, to keep him upright. It disturbed him somewhat to see how pale Courfeyrac was under his newly earned patina of smoke and gunpowder. Monsieur Fauchlevent didn’t trust Courfeyrac to stand on his own; he often had to be assisted up and down steep inclines, his jumps were perilous, his concentration wandering.

It was not long before Courfeyrac’s cat-like sure-footedness failed him. He slid down an incline while following Combeferre and Monsieur Fauchlevent and, while reaching up to grasp a lightning rod to halt his fall, hissed in pain. Monsieur Fauchlevent reached down automatically and grabbed his shoulder to pull him upright; his hand came away covered in blood.

“My God Courfeyrac, your shirt is soaked-- how long has it been bleeding like that?” asked Combeferre, alarmed.

Courfeyrac was uncharacteristically vague. “What? My excellent good friend, I am sorry to be of any trouble to you. Let me make it up to you.”

“Let me take a look at you then--”

With a great effort of will Courfeyrac took stock of their location. “No, no, we are almost near my apartment, I think Musichetta’s business is somewhere around here-- where are we going? I am sure we need to be inside. It’s very unusual to be running across rooftops.”

“Yes, and no one would disagree that running across the rooftops of Paris while bleeding copiously is even more unusual.” Combeferre impatiently raked a hand through his hair. “Courfeyrac, quickly now, I need to see what’s wrong, there’s a little light coming up over here—”

“On no, I am perfectly fine,” Courfeyrac protested, despite the fact that he was horribly pale under all his grime, and the fact that his grip on the weathervane was tenuous and his footing clumsy. He tried to pull himself up and continue on. “Look, Combeferre? Perfectly--”

He lost his balance and fell backwards through an open skylight.

“Oh yes,” said Combeferre. “Perfectly fine. I can’t see how I could have doubted that.”

At that particular moment in time, while the three last escapees from the barricade were having a somewhat disjointed conversation on a rooftop, Musichetta and Rosalie were debating with their landlord who was responsible for a broken window.

The gentleman was a Polish emigree with very little to his name aside from his building and he kept repeating to his daughter, who served as translator, that they simply did not have the ready money to repair the skylight. With an almost Romantic ability to see possibilities where others saw only problems, the daughter had come up with various, inventive translations of her father’s plight.

“Well, you do own the building,” said Rosalie. “And instead of giving us a window and repairing the roof, _as requested,_ you instead put a window in the hole in the roof. I think it is entirely your fault if it shows itself to be a bad architectural decision.”

The Polish emigree spread his hands. “Why do you not understand? I have have said a thousand times I do not have the ready money to pay a repairman.”

His daughter translated, “But your grisettes often work up here, how can we be sure that they did not steal the glass?”

“Who the devil would steal a _window_?” demanded Rosalie.

“She does not appear to understand,” said the emigree, in Polish.

“Your customs are strange,” replied the daughter, dramatically, in French. “Perhaps it is good luck to steal panes of glass.”

“Or perhaps the old and brittle glass shattered in this morning's thunderstorm and we swept it up-- while several of our workers had to pick glass fragments out of their top-knots,” retorted Musichetta, her usually amenable temper fraying. It was well after midnight, they had lost half-a-day of work, she was worried about Joly’s cold and the revolt, and she had _yet_ to have her dinner. “You can still see the glass fragments on the costumes they abandoned last night! Take a look at all the silk ruined on the floor!”

“This is a very simple matter-- are you sure you are translating correctly?” asked the old gentleman.

“Of course, of course,” replied his daughter, who rather preferred conflict to sitting in the porter’s lodge and brooding over the destruction of their homeland. In French she replied, “Well then, how can we tell if one of your people did not break it and blame the elements?”

“How could they have broken it?” cried Rosalie, exasperated.

“Perhaps they opened it improperly.”

“Oh yes, because everyone sees a slanted window in the roof of a house and thinks, ‘oh gee, that’s a _door,_ let me open it as if it is one,’” snapped Musichetta.

It was at that point that Courfeyrac did, in fact, mistake the skylight for a door.

The landlord was kind enough to break his fall.

After a moment Rosalie said, “Well. Here’s an end to our problem. Monsieur Gauvain de Courfeyrac will be paying to replace the window.”

 


	20. In which Combeferre has some vodka

Combeferre poked his head down the skylight. “Is it safe to come inside?”

“Oh yes, of course, that’s exactly why we have strewn silk all over the floor,” replied Musichetta, by now thoroughly exasperated.

“How is Courfeyrac?”

“Unconscious, what do you think?”

“I think he has the remarkable ability to see doors where no one else does,” replied Combeferre. “What did he land on?”

“The landlord,” replied Rosalie.

“Oh.”

“Does this happen quite a lot?” asked the landlord’s daughter. “You do not seem very surprised.”

“More often than we would really like,” said Combeferre, swinging down.

Rosalie stifled a gasp as she went to help her landlord. Courfeyrac’s right sleeve was dripping blood. “Musichetta, do we have any fabric that doesn’t have glass all over it?”

“Why--oh my god!”

Combeferre raced over to Courfeyrac, pulled him off of the landlord, grabbed a pair of scissors off of the table, and began cutting off Courfeyrac’s sleeve. Musichetta pulled out a roll of linen from a closet and began immediately cutting out bandages. The landlord’s daughter, keenly interested in this grim spectacle, offered Combeferre her handkerchief. Combeferre wiped Courferyac’s arm as best he could. The wound was deeper and higher up than Combeferre had guessed-- the bayonet had cut through a vein, judging by the sluggish, dark red flow.

“Is it fatal?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent, who had noiselessly entered the apartment.

“No, but deep,” said Combeferre. “I need... a stick or something and-- ah ha!” Comebferre unearthed Cosette’s green ribbon from Courfeyrac’s pocket. Rosalie handed him a knitting needle and Combeferre improvised a tourniquet. The bleeding slowed and stopped. Combeferre nearly shook with relief.

“That’ll need stitching,” observed Musichetta, a little faintly. “How is-- where is--”

“I don’t know where anyone else is,” said Combeferre, still bent over Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was pale and unconscious, his breathing shallow. Combeferre managed to pull himself together and began making Courfeyrac a little more comfortable, propping his legs up on a chair, shoving a pile of silk under his head. “Je-- Jehan’s dead. I saw Bossuet and Joly going over the rooftops together, I’m not sure if they’re alive. Bahorel was defending the stairs-- but the Guardsmen got past, so I don’t know--and Enjolras--”

Combeferre had to break off and pinch the bridge of his nose with bloody fingers.

“Let’s get you some water to wash up,” said Rosalie, with something like composure. “Come on Musichetta. And _you_ had better see to your father, Mademoiselle Jaworski, instead of gawking at that bloody sleeve.”

“A little vodka and everyone will be well,” said Mademoiselle Jaworski, complacently.

Combeferre clearly didn’t believe this. He was staring almost hopelessly at Courfeyrac’s pale face saying, in a low voice, “Come now, my friend, don’t leave me alone-- you can’t, not after-- _please_ Courfeyrac. You’re too kind to leave me alone.”

“He had bayonet wounds to the torso,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, offering a length of linen to Combeferre. Combeferre wiped his trembling hands on the cloth and began unbuttoning Courfeyrac’s waistcoat and shirt. However, Combeferre was shaking too badly to complete the task. Monsieur Fauchlevent stripped Courfeyrac to the waist, and, once Musichetta and Rosalie returned, held out the bowl of water and the lint swabs they had found. Combeferre began to clean Courfeyrac’s wounds, but it was a shocking sight.

Courfeyrac lay motionless, his chest barely rising, his auburn hair limply falling out of their curls, his lips pallid against the waxen sheen of his skin. Stripped to stripped to the waist, one could see that he had been slashed all over with crimson wounds. It was a macabre sight, made all the more so as Mademoiselle Jaworski brought up bunches of candles and surrounded him with them, as one could a corpse at a wake. The basin of water had reddened almost immediately and Combeferre left it within the circle of candlelight once he had finished.

“There are-- there are shallow cuts from sabres and bayonets to the torso,” said Combeferre, trying to regain his doctoral indifference. “The barricade, I believe, protected him from the waist down. The bayonet wound to the right arm cut a vein, that is the worst wound, but we have stopped the bleeding. I don’t have any of my instruments, but it needs stitching. Courfeyrac please, _please_ wake up, you’re too good a friend to leave me like this.”

Courfeyrac did not respond.

“We have needles and thread,” said Musichetta, a little dazed still.

“Give me those bandages and I’ll attend to the lesser wounds first.”

Musichetta handed them over. “What else do you need?”

“Vodka?” suggested Mademoiselle Jaworski. “I’ll go get some.”

And, since fate was not kind to Combeferre, as soon as Musichetta had a small, sharp curved needle with silk thread ready, Mademoiselle Jaworski entered with an open bottle of vodka, tripped over Courfeyac’s pile of blood-sodden clothes, and spilled it all over the wound and Musichetta.

“Ah yes, the importance of first dousing all one’s surgical materials in vodka,” said Combeferre, exasperated. “That is why all the best surgeons are drunk!”

“You are not drunk and your hands are shaking,” pointed out Mademoiselle Jaworksi.”Perhaps you do need some vodka?”

“I can steady them without spirits,” Combeferre said, being almost ruthless with himself. “If you must hover, at least bring the candles closer so that I can see what I’m doing. I need to suture the wound. And if you must stare at that bloody sleeve while hovering, bring it over so I can see how much blood he’s lost.”

Much to everyone’s relief, Combeferre’s customary self-mastery won out. His hands were steady as he sutured the wound. He was quick about his task, and, after wringing out the sleeve over a basin, decided that though the blood loss was severe it wasn’t fatal.

Probably.  

Courfeyrac did not stir for any of this, which, despite the blood everywhere, did not make anyone feel particularly sanguine. Monsieur Fauchlevent was hiding in a shadow, tending to the landlord. Rosalie and Musichetta were trying to busy themselves in the details of cleanliness, not the bleak and bloody reality before them, and Mademoiselle Jaworski was marveling to herself at the sight of so fresh a dead body. Combeferre sat almost helplessly beside his patient, in the circle of candlelight, bloody basins all around him, seeming to contain all the color Gauvain had lost. He looked like a blank piece of paper, crumpled and dirtied. It was hard to recognize the person before them as the lively center of the Amis.

“We should take him home,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, after a minute. “All his family will be at the Hotel Beaulieu, they were setting off for Aix-en-Provence tomorrow.”

“Thank God they didn’t set off today,” said Musichetta, still in a state of shock and confusion. “And you-- you really don’t know where anyone else is.”

Combeferre could not speak.

“ _Now_ you need the vodka,” said Mademoiselle Jaworski.

Combeferre took the bottle.

Monsieur Fauchlevent went down the stairs to find a hackney coach. The landlord rather groggily revived after his loving daughter poured a glass of water on his face. No one entirely knew what to tell him. The truth of, “You were knocked out by a potentially dead, falling revolutionary,” almost defied credulity.

His daughter helpfully bridged this conversational gap by offering him vodka and, seeing that half the bottle was gone thanks to earlier mishaps and Combeferre’s draught, the landlord assumed that the absence of vodka accounted for his absence of memory. With very careful shepherding downstairs, he didn’t even notice the very pale, shirtless gentleman bleeding in his attic.

Monsieur Fauchlevent achieved his objective and soon returned upstairs, taking it upon himself to almost cradle Courfeyrac against him and take him downstairs. Courfeyrac’s breathing was shallow, his skin pale and cold and his head lolled against  Monsieur Fauchlevent’s chest. Musichetta had forced Combeferre to wash his hands and face, and to borrow a new coat she had sewn for a customer who _almost_ shared Combeferre’s measurements. Combeferre looked dazed, worried, and nearly on the verge of nervous collapse, but he was much more presentable than he had been when jumping through the skylight.

Combeferre kept peering anxiously over Monsieur Fauchlevent’s shoulder as they walked down the stairs, pausing on every landing to adjust the blanket in which they had wrapped Courfeyrac. It seemed to comfort Combeferre to be doing something for his friend, and Monsieur Fauchlevent was loathe to deny Combeferre any comfort after all the blows that had fallen upon them that evening.

“He’s drunk,” said Combeferre, shortly, once they made their way out the door. “We need to take him home.”

The driver was satisfied with this explanation and with the _louis d’or_ Monsieur Fauchlevent shoved into his hand. The driver didn’t even mind that, in order to keep Courfeyrac supine they had to lower a window and prop Courfeyrac’s feet on the windowsill.

It was a tense ride, Monsieur Fauchlevent sure that at any moment that Courfeyrac would stop breathing, or Combeferre, his nerves stretched to the breaking point, would assault the driver for not picking a smoother route. Monsieur Fauchlevent insisted upon going to the main entrance himself instead of letting Combeferre punch a footman in the face for being too slow about his business.

One of the footmen, still tucking his shirt into his trousers, his coat half-off, opened the door in confusion. “I think perhaps you gentlemen have the wrong address. This is the house of the baron and baroness of Beaulieu.”

“This is the baroness’s brother,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. Courfeyrac, admittedly, did not look much like himself. He instead looked like a wax figure they had wrapped in a blanket to ensure he wouldn’t be broken before delivery.

“What?”

Combeferre waved off the coach driver and said, exasperated, “It’s me, Monsieur Combeferre. Let us through for God’s sake, Gauvain’s near death.”

“Who?”

Combeferre sighed. “Alkali metals.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent had no idea what this meant, but the footman snorted and said, a little unsteadily, “Ah- ah yes, sir. I suppose you never did discover Mademoiselle Lanoy’s favorite; we tried belowstairs but never could find out ourselves.”

“I am so pleased that is what I am known for,” replied Combeferre, tetchily. “Now, let us in, Gauvain has lost a great deal of blood, and it will be _entirely_ your fault if he dies on the driveway.”

“At once, sir, let me help sir with madame the baroness’s brother.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent accepted his help gratefully and between them they carried Courfeyrac into the sitting room and carefully arranged him on the divan closest to the banked fire. Monsieur Fauchlevent stirred up the flames and added logs while the footman rushed up to wake the family. Combeferre bent to listen to Courfeyrac’s heartbeat and clutched at Courfeyrac’s nerveless hand.

Yvain stumbled down first, struggling into trousers and waistcoat at the same time before dropping both upon the sight of his brother.

“Oh my God,” he said, his eyes very green against his pale face.

The two elder sisters rushed down after him-- or rather, Blanchefleur rushed, scattering curl papers in her wake, and the baroness glided elegantly down the stairs, one hand on the bannister, the other holding up the skirts of her dressing gown. The baron followed soon afterwards, albeit carefully, as he still favored the leg he had broken last year.

“Pierre, it appears my brother-in-law has cholera,” the baron observed.

“Sir, he looks like he came off a barricade,” the footman protested.

“He has cholera,” the baron replied, his gray gaze unusually steely. “Take your orders from Monsieur Combeferre on how to treat a cholera patient. There’s a _louis d’or_ in it for you if you act sensibly.”

Combeferre had reached the end of his skill, however, he could only try to make Courfeyrac more comfortable. This task soothed him, somewhat. “Go-- go to Necker. Ask Dr. Morell for help, he is on duty now, say that Monsieur Combeferre would appreciate his advice.”

“Would it be simpler to bring Dr. Morell here?” asked the baron.

The baroness’s hands had been trembling too much to unlock her writing desk; Blanchefleur shoved her aside with an impatient, “Oh let _me,_ ” and soon handed Monsieur Combeferre a sheet of perfumed paper and a pencil.

Combeferre looked over the unconscious Courfeyrac once again and said, “I-- yes. Yes. Ask Dr. Morell to come at once—or rather, I shall, I will write him a note. I’ll give you his home address as well, in case he is not at the hospital.”

Yvain, dazed and trembling, could no longer remain standing. His legs seemed to fold under him as he gazed at his brother. “ _Gauvain,_ ” was all he could say.

The baroness said, in a shaking voice, “He looks just like....” She clasped her hand to her mouth.

“Just like what?” asked Blanchefleur, once Pierre had rushed out of the room with the note.

Yvain looked up at his sisters in agony. “Say it.”

“He looks just like Chretien did,” said the baroness, her voice unsteady, “when _Maire_ found him, after Waterloo.”

They were all very quiet. Monsieur Fauchlevent was tired, bewildered by this unexpected tragedy.

The baroness recovered first. “But he is not...?”

“He is not dead,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, gently.

Blanchefleur looked in confusion between Laudine and Yvain.

“You were only five when Chretien died,” said Yvain. “ _Maire_ took me out of school when it happened. _Paire_ didn’t want-- it just... so happened that _maire,_ Laudine, Gauvain and I went to try and find Chretien in the hospitals, or on the battlefield as soon as we heard Napoleon had lost. Chretien was in a field hospital, they had cut off his legs but it was too late--” but Yvain could not continue and instead hid his face in his hands.

Combeferre was too exhausted and overwrought to follow this anecdote. “Courfeyrac-- sorry, Gauvain-- has some shallow wounds to his chest and abdomen. The only serious sound was a bayonet thrust to his upper arm, which cut open a vein. I have had it sewn shut. There is no medical reason to cut off his legs. The legs are uninjured.”

“This all seems like some species of nightmare,” said Blanchefleur, uncertainly. “I cannot possibly be awake.”

Laudine, in a rare moment of sisterly affection, pressed Blanchefleur’s hand. “I wish it was. Oh Yvain, I _knew_ we pressed Gauvain too hard, but I was so _frightened_ of something like this happening, I wanted him _out_ of Paris before all this, he was always too much like Chretien, he always had to be championing some cause--”

“He always _has_ to be championing some cause,” snapped Yvain, with sudden violence. “Gauvain isn’t dead!”

“But he is--” Laudine cut herself off. The baron gently took her by the hand and led her to a chair. A little helplessly, Laudine said, “But he will need bandages. And what will we tell the servants? I don’t trust all of them to keep quiet about my brother being brought here in the dead of night--”

“--in the middle of the night!” Yvain corrected her ruthlessly.

Laudine looked her bewilderment at her husband and clutched his hand.

The baron was a man used to taking command in strange and stressful situations. “Well, my dear, let us say that your brother has cholera and his good friend Monsieur Combeferre was so worried he brought Gauvain to us at once. That is all the servants need to know.”

“But they will come look, there is such a commotion, everyone will see at once that he doesn’t have cholera, he has sabre cuts all over him--”

“What if--” Blanchelfeur began and then she colored and said, “I read too much!”

“What has that got to do with anything?” demanded Yvain.

“I was going to say that I could cause a distraction,” said Blanchefleur. “And Laudine, you’re very good at acting overwrought--”

“--must you still snip at me?” demanded Laudine, woe-be-gone.

Blanchefleur continued on, resolutely, “And I’m sure you could just go up to the housekeeper and say, ‘Oh my dear, there is _such_ a commotion! The whole house to shut down, the packing to be done, the travel plans to be arranged, Gauvain ill with cholera in the sitting room-- and now Marie has tried to break out of her room! I sent Blanchefleur to stop her, but _that_ isn’t working at all! Let me keep Pierre to tend to Gauvain, but do see what you can do to keep the house from burning down while I nurse my brother!’”

“Are you suggesting that we allow Marie access to open flame?” asked the baron, not thrilled with this plan.

“It would certainly draw attention away from Gauvain,” said Blanchefleur. “Speak of the devil... or I supposed, possessed sister thrown out of the convent after an exorcism....”

Marie, furious at being left out, stormed into the library, sending the door crashing against the opposite wall.

“It took you long enough to get down here,” said Blanchefleur, annoyed. “I don’t understand how you can fall asleep again after a footman woke you in the middle of the night saying your brother is possibly dead.”

Marie had been preparing herself for a furious tirade but, at this, stopped abruptly and said, in a small and rather uncertain voice, “I hadn’t heard what the footman said.”

“Well now you know,” said Blanchefleur, ruthlessly, “and you’d better be prepared to be helpful because Yvain’s gone all to pieces and Laudine’s got to worry about the doctor, and Gauvain clearly can’t help himself at this point.”

Without being told to do so, Marie very timidly shut the door behind her and tiptoed over to the divan. Gauvain was still bundled up, still pale, still unresponsive to Yvain muttering at him to wake up, to please, _please_ wake-up, or to Combeferre’s attempts to re-dress the bayonet wound on Gauvain’s right arm. The sight of her liveliest sibling so inert, so motionless, made a deep and grave impression upon Marie. It had always seemed to her that no one in the world suffered as she did, that only her feelings and her life mattered. It began to dawn on her, however dimly, that other people were as real as she was, and that the sufferings of others could be as bad as her own.

“What’s happened to him?” Marie asked, utterly confused. She had assumed that no one did anything at all interesting in her family, unless she was there to make the situation lively. It came as a deep and unpleasant shock to her that everyone had lives and interests and apparently violent battles that did not involve her in the least.

“He was fighting on a barricade again, like in 1830,” said Blanchefleur. “But it didn’t go as well this time. Look-- Marie come look at me please.” Marie could not at first tear her eyes away from Gauvain’s pale face, the bloody bandages on Gauvain’s right arm. Blanchefleur bent to Marie’s eye level and put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Look, Marie-- I mean, Brocéliande--a doctor’s going to come to look at Gauvain in a few minutes. However, the servants are already up. Only Pierre knows that Gauvain doesn’t really have cholera and we need to keep it that way.”

Marie’s gaze kept drifting away from Blanchefleur towards Gauvain. “I don’t understand how I can help.”

“Gauvain is _not_ beyond help,” growled Yvain, mishearing.

Blachefleur shook Marie a little. “Look at me, please! It is _extremely important_ that you pay attention. We need to cause a distraction, so no one gets the truth out of the doctor and no one ‘accidentally’ wanders into the library and sees Gauvain.”

“A distraction?” Marie was too shocked to really understand what was demanded of her, but then said, “Oh-- _oh._ Like when I bit Mother Superior so that Suzette wouldn’t get punished for talking during mealtimes.”

Blanchefleur nodded. “Yes! This is the moment you have been preparing for all your life. You need to be as disagreeable as possible and pitch a fit so loud the entire household will be distracted by your histrionics. Can you do that?”

Marie snorted. “The only question about _that_ is how long you want it to last. If I break something or set something on fire I could fake a two hour tantrum _easily._ ”

“I am going to sacrifice my best linen sheets,” said Laudine, a little worried.

“I have an old copy of _Ivanhoe_ you can set alight at the height of the drama,” said Blanchefleur. “Remember, you have to be a perfectly irritating snot about it.”

Marie’s expression made it clear that this was not a problem in the least. “So you’re helping me, Blanchefleur? Where are we going to fight?”

Laudine had been in brief, wordless discussion with her husband. The baron glanced to at the door and Laudine said, “As far away from Gauvain and the doctor as possible. Upstairs, possibly. Don’t set fire to the new tapestries, I rather like them.”

Blanchefleur looked around the room, at Yvain and Combeferre hovering anxiously over Gauvain, at Monsieur Fauchelevent, who had folded himself up like a forgotten newspaper in a shadowy corner, at the baron and baroness leaning in towards each other, for once displaying their need for one another. Blanchefleur took Marie by the hand. “Come on, rush out of here screaming, I’ll shut the door behind us and Laudine will direct all the servants upstairs. Everyone will believe Gauvain has cholera if they only see him tomorrow, all pale and weak-- we mustn’t allow anyone to see him bleeding all over the divan. Please tell me you understand--”

Marie opened the door, took a deep breath, and let out a piercing scream. “ _I HATE YOU ALL!”_

“You wretched child, get out of a sick room if you can’t behave yourself!” replied Blanchefleur, chasing after her.

“ _You can’t force me out if I’m leaving_!”

They ran out, Blanchefleur taking care to slam the door shut behind her.

Yvain flinched and Combeferre looked anxiously to see if the scream had woken Courfeyrac.

It hadn’t.

Laudine watched Gauvain for a moment more before assuming her role in the little drama. “Oh heavens,” she exclaimed, opening the door. “Madame Blanchard, I tell you, I have not slept enough for this-- Gauvain has cholera, and when Blanchefleur told Marie to stop whinging while Gauvain was ill, she just took off-- oh dear, do you smell smoke?” Laudine let out a faint groan. “Wake all the servants if you must, but keep the house from burning down while I tend to my brother-- and please, make sure there aren’t any more disturbances, poor Gauvain has a rough night of it as is.” Laudine shut the door and leaned against it.

“Alright, my dear?” asked the baron gently. “There is probably a little laudanum in my study.”

“I-- no.” Laudine passed a hand over her eyes. “I don’t want-- not again--”

“ _He’s fine,_ ” snarled Yvain. “Gauvain’s not like Chretien, he’s much more practical, his best friend’s a medical student--”

“Come sit down, my dear,” said the baron, putting an arm around Laudine’s waist and leading her to an armchair by the fire. “You will feel much better-- you needn’t worry, your part is done, I can manage the doctor. And if I need any assistance, I feel morally certain that Monsieur Combeferre has a knife in his boot and will shank anyone who endangers the life of your brother.”

Laudine was crying silently, but nodded and sat down, shielding her eyes with her hand. She was able to greet the doctor with something like composure when he stumbled into the sitting room, looking tired and haggared.

“Ah, you’ve come-- thank you!” said Combeferre, at least tearing his eyes away from Courfeyrac’s pale face.

“Of course-- by the by, part of your house seems to have caught fire,” Dr. Morrell said, turning to the baron. “It doesn’t seem serious, there is a small army of footmen putting it out, but I thought it only right to inform you-- Monsieur Combeferre, with your help?” Combeferre took his black bag and helped Dr. Morell out of his coat. The others watched this cautiously, not moving from the fixed tableau they had established earlier-- Monsieur Fauchlevent in his shadowy corner, not wanting to slip out until he had good news for Cosette, Laudine hiding her eyes by the fire, the baron leaning on the mantle by her, Yvain on the floor by the divan, clutching his brother’s hand.

Dr. Morell took all this in impassively. “Monsieur Combeferre, if you will unswaddle the patient, so I may better examine him?”

Combeferre hesitated, then pulled the blanket back, revealing all the bandages wrapped around Courfeyrac’s upper arm and his torso.

“Hm,” said Dr. Morell. “This is certainly an unusual treatment for cholera.”

The baron, stirring at the logs in the fire with vague menace, said, “That is what I have said he has and I suggest that is what _you_ say he has.”

“Unless the miasmas of Paris have grown so dangerous as to grow opposable thumbs capable of wielding bayonets and sabres, your brother-in-law was on a barricade.”

No one knew exactly what to say to this. Monsieur Fauchlevent retreated further into his shadowy corner. Laudine and Yvain exchanged fearful looks. The baron continued to gaze calmly at the doctor, unwilling to concede control of the story in his own home.

“Yes,” said Combeferre, eventually. “But if you turn him in, turn me in as well. I was with him the entire time.”

“Nonsense,” said Dr. Morell. “Who said anything about turning anyone into the authorities? You’ll discover the cure for consumption someday, I won’t halt your promising career by throwing you in a prison cell. I had been preparing myself for cholera, not immediate surgery, that is all. Let me see the wounds, I must immediately rethink my course of treatment. Ah, what neat stitching!”

“I learned them from you,” said Combeferre, relieved.

“Madame la baronesse, perhaps you have some Hungary water-- smelling salts--”

Laudine very quietly exited the library and, bypassing the still smoldering conflagration that had been Blanchelfeur’s copy of _Ivanhoe,_ retrieved the vial from her room. She returned to the study to see Dr. Morell with his hand on a lancet and Combeferre looking as if he was going to take the lancet and shove it through Dr. Morell’s jugular vein.

“I entirely disagree.”

“He ought to be bled!”

“He’s been bleeding his way across the Marais,” snapped Combeferre. “Here’s a wild and crazy idea! Let’s not bleed him after all that _natural bloodloss_ failed to do him any good what-so-ever!”

Doctor Morell looked annoyed. “Combeferre--”

“I’ve had one of my friends bleed to death in front of me tonight, I _will not_ let there be another!” If he hadn’t been so uncharacteristically furious, he would have wept.

Laudine knelt by Yvain and opened her vial of Hungary water. She poured some on a handkerchief and began to dab at Courfyrac’s forehead with it.

For the first time in hours, Courfeyrac stirred. He opened his eyes, looked around blearily and said, in a soft and raspy voice, “I thought Cosette was here.”

Laudine burst into tears of relief.

“No, no, she’s not,” said Combeferre, almost in tears himself. “Can I get you anything Courfeyrac?”

“I’m thirsty,” he said, a little vaguely. “Hullo, what happened to my shirt?”

“It’s soaked in blood, you don’t want it anymore,” said Combeferre, already by the door.

Courfeyrac considered this. “Quite right.”

“Wine?” asked Yvain.

“Lemonade?” asked Courfeyrac, almost inaudibly. “It is very hot. Too hot for red wine.”

Laudine kissed Courfeyrac’s hand. “Of course Gauvain. My dearest little brother-- lemonade. Anything. Shall we send for Mademoiselle Fauchlevent? Maurice, what do you think?”

“It might upset her to see Gauvain like this,” said the baron.

“She is stronger than one could imagine,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, simply. His interjection alarmed everyone; they had forgotten he was still there. “Should you like to see her?”

“Please,” said Courfeyrac, shutting his eyes again.

“Whoa, no more sleeping, stay awake,” said Yvain, wringing his hand.

“ _Owwwww,_ ” complained Courfeyrac, reluctantly opening his eyes again. “ _That hurt._ ”

“I will go and get her myself.” Monsieur Fauchlevent paused as he passed by the mantle and said in an undertone, to the baron, “It is more serious than we had expected.”

“Was that why...?”

“Politics, not passion,” replied Monsieur Fauchlevent. “But they have been writing to each other.”

The baron sighed. “Can that knowledge be suppressed?”

“He has also been sneaking into my garden to visit my daughter-- without a chaperone-- after I have retired for the evening.”

The baron passed his hand over his eyes. “Let us make sure he _has_ a future before disposing of it as honor demands.”

“I will need three days to retrieve Cosette’s dowry-- if you leave Paris, will you take her with you?”

“Of course-- I’ll leave our travel itinerary with my secretary, he will advise you where best to meet us along the way.”

When Monsieur Fauchlevent arrived home, he was surprised to see Cosette, Toussaint and Eponine already up, and tending to the gamin that had been at the barricade. It appeared that they had made a haphazard attempt at cleaning his face; grime only spotted Gavroche’s forehead and neck, his cheeks were clean.

At the sound of the door opening Cosette looked up at once, cried, “Oh Papa, thank God!” and flung herself into his arms. “I was so worried, you are not accustomed to urban warfare! Gavroche said he didn’t know if you’d managed to climb onto the roof.”

“I did-- and Courfeyrac is alive.”

Cosette could not hide her look of naked relief.

“But,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, though each word cost him immeasurable pain, each word the heavy acknowledgement that there was someone more important in his daughter’s life than him, “he is very weak and has lost a good deal of blood.”

He could see Cosette not quite taking in this information. She pulled back and stared up at him. “But he’s-- he promised me so faithfully that he would be careful.”

“Well, he ain’t dead,” said Eponine, philosophically. “That’s as careful as you can be on a barricade. Gavroche, stop your snifflin.”

“I ain’t sniffling,” retorted Gavroche. It became clear to Monseiur Fauchlevent that Gavroche’s cheeks were clean because he had been crying. “You’re a filthy liar Eponine, that’s what comes of too many plays when you haven’t eaten, you get reality all confused, and that is against revolutionary policy. I will write you up a citation.”

“Idiot, you don’t know how to write!” Then, looking pleased with herself, “ _I_ do.”

“And of course you know each other,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, by now convinced that there were only twenty or so people still left in Paris. Everyone sensible and not involved in either criminal activity or violent insurrection against the government had wisely fled to healthier climes.

“Gavroche is also a Thenardier,” said Cosette. She had her head tilted to the side and then, straightening her posture so that she was more of the poised young demoiselle from the convent than the Lark, said, “But-- but Gauvain-- Courfeyrac-- he did escape?”

“Yes and is injured at the Hotel Beaulieu. Can you be ready to go in five minutes? The baron’s coach is waiting at the end of the street.”

Cosette drifted into her room, still baffled that Courferyac, of all people, could be severely injured in a revolution. Toussaint, torn, looked between Monsieur Fauchlevent and Cosette.

“Go help her dress her hair,” suggested Monsieur Fauchlevent. Toussaint nodded.

“They killed him,” said Gavroche, in a choked voice, after Toussaint had left. “Shove off, Eponine, I ain’t some sparrow, you can’t just fling your disgusting rolls at me! I have better taste than that!”

Eponine drew back scowling. She had been rather pleased with her culinary endeavors.

“Who did they kill?” asked Monsieur Fauchlevent, gently.

“The big gamin, the one who painted fans,” said Gavroche, struggling. “He showed me how to run when the ground was sideways but blam, a sniper, and he fell like-- like--” but this was beyond even Gavroche’s experience. He had no words for it. “He saw the sniper first. He pushed me over onto the next roof before he got hit and fell. He was a good ‘un.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent crouched down, so that he was on eye-level with Gavroche. “Do you know anything of the others?”   

“I saw them leading out the big ‘un and the blond smoothface,” said Gavroche. These were apparently terms of high honor, from the way he said them. “The Guardsmen lead them away, and lots of others. And the other doctor, he fell when he was running and the bald ‘un was with him.”

“Did he fall off the roof, like the big gamin?”

Gavroche was trying so hard not to cry it broke Monsieur Fauchlevent’s heart. “I dunno.”

Cosette emerged from her room then, Toussaint still fussing with her hair. “Papa, let’s go-- Gavroche, will you be alright with Eponine and Toussaint?”

“As long as she doesn’t try to feed me that lumpy rock she keeps calling food,” said Gavroche. “I’ve tried eating rocks before, it’s not so good as mud which still is worse than nothing, and Eponine's rolls are worse than _all of them_.”

“You little--” Eponine lunged for Gavroche.

Cosette watched this with a puzzled frown. “It must be so strange to have siblings.”

Monseiur Fauchlevent guided her out the door. He thought of his sister and all her little children. “You would be astonished at the lengths one sibling will go for another.”

 


	21. In which Cosette takes a histrionic turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the prison stuff comes directly from _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , so if there are any mistakes, I divert blame to Alexandre Dumas.

 

Courfeyrac was, in his own words, “weak as a newborn kitten,” but fortunately not as blind. He was propped semi-upright with a great number of pillows and, though unable and too exhausted to hold the glass himself, was sipping lemonade with Combeferre’s help. Courfeyrac spotted Cosette as soon as she appeared in the doorway.

Cosette immediately took stock of the situation and, seeing with what desperate relief the others were crowded around the couch, assumed a light and teasing air. “Oh, you wretch, you promised me so faithfully that you were going to be careful!”

“Hallo sweetheart,” said Courfeyrac, still weak and a little confused.

Cosette looked uncomfortably around the room, but in the general rejoicing that Gauvain was not dead, everyone seemed inclined to let the familiarity slide. This somewhat discomposed Cosette, who was now used to encountering increasingly obvious disapproval when anyone condescended to notice her deep and obvious affection for Courfeyrac. But Laudine and Yvain were in conference with the doctor and the baron was purposefully poking at the logs in the fireplace. Cosette did not particularly want to see her father’s reaction and so did not turn to look at him.

“Courfeyrac owes you his life, actually,” said Combeferre, very anxiously watching as Courfeyrac tried to get up.

“Oh no, don’t,” said Cosette, hastily going to Courfeyrac’s side. She took one of the pillows scattered around and plopped it on the floor, so she could easily sit and smile up at him. “See, it’s much easier for me to come to you and it is so late I would much rather sit.”

She did so and Courfeyrac was convinced to lean back against the pillows again. With a great effort, he even managed to lift his hand enough to touch her hair. Cosette leaned into his touch, feeling a great rush of affection and relief. The worst has passed without her knowledge and no one seemed inclined to separate them. “What happened, Gauvain?”

Courfeyrac was exhausted though and looked at Combeferre.

“Bayonet wound to the right arm, there,” said Combeferre, pointing. He was exhausted and still close to tears after the ordeal of the past twenty-four hours, but, still holding himself together. Seeing Cosette calm and composed before him caused Combeferre to shift focus from Courfeyrac, still weak and vaguely uncertain of what was going on around him, to Cosette.  “And that ribbon you gave Courfeyrac-- I used it as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. You literally saved his life-- and he only came to when he thought you were in the room.”

Cosette’s smile trembled. “Oh, but it wasn’t me at all-- it was _you,_ Monsieur Combeferre, and there are-- there are no words in any language I know of to tell you how thankful I am for you. It must have been extraordinarily difficult for you, I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to operate on a friend, but you saved someone—some one so very dear to me and I am so _grateful._ ”

And, as Courfeyrac feared, Cosette’s kindness cut through all of Combeferre’s much weakened defenses, more effectively than any bayonet. His expression crumpled in on itself.

“Oh-- um,” said Cosette, unsure what she’d said to cause such a reaction.

“He couldn’t save someone else,” murmured Courfeyrac, into Cosette’s hair.

Cosette was always inclined to react to compassion, even to the most unexpected stimuli. “Oh, poor dear-- come here.” She motioned to Combeferre to put his head on her shoulder and, when he had done so, began to pet his hair. “It’s alright, it’s all over now, you were magnificent.”

In the face of such gentle, undemanding, but ever present kindness, Combeferre began to weep into the shoulder of Cosette’s gown. Cosette murmured all the soothing nonsense that provides a comfort deeper than language. Courfeyrac began to smile a little-- Combeferre was considerably taller than Cosette, and had always given the impression of great solidity and towering intellect. He always seemed to be reaching for the heavens. To see him bent nearly in half, leaning on Cosette to keep from falling on the floor in tears was rather incongruous and strange. It was almost funny. Or at least, it was really quite funny when everything seemed a little off. Nothing would stay in its proper place or even remain upright. It was starting to give him a headache.

When Combeferre had at last been reduced to a sniffling silence, Courfeyrac asked, “May I go to sleep now?”

“No,” said Combeferre, clearing his throat. Cosette gave him her handkerchief and motioned at him to blow his nose. Combeferre did so, loudly. “You’ll take the broth that Dr. Morell ordered from the kitchen. Then you can sleep.”

“And I think you’d better go to sleep too, Monsieur Combeferre,” said Dr.Morell, kindly. “It has been a very taxing evening for you.”

“But Courfeyrac--”

Monsieur Fauchlevent had been sitting in a dark corner in a chair that commanded a view of the scene before him. At this he quietly got up and said, “My daughter and I will keep watch.”

“I had a bed prepared for you,” said Laudine, looking exhausted herself. “Oh but, before we are all too exhausted to think-- Dr. Morell has advised we leave for Aix as planned, as soon as Gauvain is a little stronger. Monsieur Combeferre, you will come with us, of course?”

Combeferre had slid his glasses up into his hair as he wept. He shakily pulled them out of his hair and looked for a clean corner of Cosette’s handkerchief to wipe them on.

“We’ve pushed him past endurance for now,” said Yvain, in an undertone to his sister. “Leave it for the night.”

Laudine plucked at the ruffled collar of her dressing gown. “But with Gauvain looking like that, I want--”

The baron put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Come now, my dear, we all need a rest. Let us leave Gauvain to the Fauchlevents’ charge for now-- as the daughter is obviously in love with him and the father, according to Monsieur Combeferre, more-or-less dragged your brother from the barricade, he could be in no better hands.”

Cosette had been insensible to this, as Courfeyrac was trying to shift and wincing. “Let me help-- is it too high?” Then, only half-serious she said, “You have given me quite a shock, you’d best lay there and rest for at least a week or all my nerves will be shattered.”

Courfeyrac’s smile was sweet but vague. “Of course, anything you say.”

Cosette looked worriedly at Combeferre.

“He’s been like this since before he passed out,” said Combeferre. “Broth and bed rest and I think he’ll be fine.”

“Of course he will be,” said Cosette, with more assurance than she felt. “Here’s the broth-- not let... is it Pierre? Yes, let Pierre take you to your room. I’ll run upstairs screaming if anything happens to Gauvain-- I don’t think I’d be able to do otherwise.”

Combeferre allowed himself to be led out at this. Once the household had been calmed, the servants ushered belowstairs, Marie “sedated,” Combeferre tucked into bed and Dr. Morell paid and sent home with all their tearful thanks, the de Courfeyracs all convened in Laudine’s dressing room. Laudine could not be perfectly easy after updating her sisters on all Dr. Morell had said, as she was not convinced that Combeferre would accompany Courfeyrac out of Paris. Dr. Morell had been very insistent on it, as had the baron. Louis-Philippe had proved, very early on in his reign, to be suspicious of any liberal opposition, and inclined to arrest and prosecute. The baron did not wish either his brother-in-law, or his brother-in-law’s best friend, to wait in prison for months without any sign of a trial; it would have been injurious to his career as it would be to Courfeyrac’s health, or Combeferre’s future prospects as a doctor.

“But all their other friends,” said Blanchefleur. “They’ll have been arrested. Surely Monsieur Combeferre will wish to be with them-- though I certainly wouldn’t leave Cosette’s side if I’d just dragged her from a barricade.”

“I’ll see what I can do about all the others,” said the baron, “but I won’t be called upon until morning with any news.”

It was a long night for Cosette, broken only at about dawn, when her father stirred and said, “I must go north for three days.”

“Am I to go with you?” asked Cosette.

“No, child-- stay here. You will go with the de Courfeyracs to the South, if they leave before I return.”

This puzzled Cosette considerably. “But everyone was so against us even sharing the summer before Gauvain went to England.”

“Gauvain had not yet frightened everyone by nearly dying on a barricade,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, dryly. Then, after a moment, he said, “Do know why I’m going north, Cosette?”

“Presumably to tell your tenants or your banker we are going to Aix-en-Provence,” said Cosette, puzzled. “Papa-- I had meant to ask-- how did you find Gauvain? Were you on the other side of the barricade?”

Monsieur Fauchlevent did not wish to have this conversation with Cosette but he said, “I intercepted a letter he sent to you.”

Cosette paled immediately. “They’re-- they’re just notes, Papa, it’s nothing-- no one else knows--”

“I went to the barricade,” he continued on, ruthlessly, “and young Gauvain de Courfeyrac admitted to me that he had been meeting you at night with apparently only God for your chaperone.”

Cosette could not really refute this. She instead looked at her folded hands and tried to feel guilty. A strange, and bizarre plan was beginning to form in her mind, but she did not wish to act upon it before she was sure of its success. Ever since admitting to Eponine what it was she really wanted, Cosette had been turning over various plans in her usual, quietly practical way. This one had occurred to her but she had initially discarded it as too likely to inadvertently hurt her father. But if her father already knew--

“Then your young suitor traded his life to me for a box of cartridges,” said her father.

“How very economically sound of you not to leave your property where it could be confiscated by Guardsmen,” said Cosette, her mind racing. Courfeyrac’s life was her father’s, power had shifted, and, once again, her future happiness lay with her father. Very carefully, Cosette said, “I’m sorry to have been flippant. I was just so worried about you and about Gavuain. And-- and I am so sorry-- I knew-- I should not have done-- but-- but Papa, I love him more than I ever want to admit. I was so happy I suppose I wasn’t--I wasn’t thinking about how anyone else would see it. He never did anything to hurt me until he nearly died, and that is not at all his fault.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent was quiet for a long time. “It is obvious he cares for you.”

Cosette said, a little softly, “Yes. Might I have the letter?”

Monsieur Fauchlevent was at war within himself but then, with a groan, handed it over. “I should not be giving this to you. Ah my child--”

“I know what I’ve done doesn’t please you,” said Cosette, staring at the letter, trying to discern if she had correctly guessed her father’s reaction, “but I haven’t harmed anyone else, and I’ve been happy. That’s-- that’s all I want. To be happy.”

This idea was clearly strange to her father. “My child, if you have been meeting him alone at night--”

Cosette exclaimed, “Good God, Papa, I’m not pregnant! I hope you don’t think I’m as stupid as that. He’s talked about marriage but I’ve always put him off-- I’ve never wanted anything so much and known in advance how much it would hurt not to get it-- and so-- so I was happy with what we could be allowed to do without risking a _child--_ merciful father in heaven, papa, you must think I’m unbearably stupid if I learned about my mother without learning from her example.”

“Stupidity has nothing to do with it,” said her father. He looked down upon her with an unreadable expression but then sighed and said, “We will discuss what is to be done when I return.”  

Combeferre and the baron came in then, to allow Cosette and Monsieur Fauchelevent a rest.

“Your friends are all arrested and being held at Sainte-Pélagie,” said the baron, as Combeferre settled himself in an armchair by Courfeyrac. “If, as you said last night, you were _not_ at Saint-Merry?”

Combeferre shook his head. “No, sir, we were on the Rue de la Chanverie.”

“All survivors from the Rue de la Chanverie and the smaller barricades were taken and initially questioned at Sainte-Pélagie,” said the baron, consulting his correspondence. “I am impressed. You had, what, 3,000 men mobilized in the section of central Paris between the Chatelet and the arsenal, and the Faubourg Sainte-Antoine? I daresay that if you hadn’t had the rain, the cholera epidemic and the fire hoses to deal with, you would now be informing me of the events of the past few days.”

“Fire hoses?” asked Combeferre, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“We turned fire hoses on your brethren,” said the baron, frowning at his letter. “I cannot say I entirely like this method, any more than I liked Napoleon’s ‘whiff of grapeshot’ back in the nineties. Still, the protesters were dispersed in most areas without them being killed-- severely injured, I imagined, but still alive.” He folded up his letter. “And, young man, I advise you to leave Paris with us. It will be dangerous for you to linger.”

“I will not leave my friends,” said Combeferre, uncertainly.

“Then,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, all gentleness, “do not leave the one that needs you most.”

The baron nodded. “Ah, Monsieur Fauchlevent, send your household over to us, we hope to depart within three days, at the most. My dear brother-in-law has cholera, he really must get out of all the miasmas of Paris. Now, Monsieur Combeferre, what can we give our injured chevalier to eat? Broth, presumably, but perhaps a little bread and butter?”

Courfeyrac had been awake and listening to this with something of a dull air. “No butter.”

The baron turned to Courfeyrac with a quizzical air. “No?”

“No,” said Courfeyrac, “but you should call me Bayard, not Gauvain.”

Everyone was immediately alarmed that Gauvain’s injuries were much more severe than expected; Combeferre half fell out of his chair in his fear that the wound had become infected and his friend was now in the grip of a terrible fever. Then, he worked out the joke and said, “Oh God, really?”

“Really,” said Courfeyrac. “Maurice has dubbed me a chevalier, and now I am a chevalier _sans beurre et sans reproche._ ”

Courfeyrac was delighted with this witticism. Combeferre groaned. Cosette stifled a laugh before saying, to her perplexed father, “Bayard was the _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche._ ”

“You mistake matters, Gauvain,” said the baron, dryly. “You could not possibly be _sans reproche_ after that pun.”

“Was it better or worse than my Bourbon pun?”

“Perhaps the same level,” said the baron, “which will reassure Laudine when she rises. I must attend to my correspondence. Monsieur Fauchlevent, if you will arrange your affairs before noon, we may find some time to talk over matters before we are both too busy-- Monsieur Combeferre, I leave you as chaperone. If you cannot do anything else, at least stop Gauvain from making any other terrible puns.”

“That’s how you know I’m fine,” said Gauvain, with a faint attempt at his usual smile. “You secretly liked that one, admit it.”

“I have a habit of not lying before I had had a cup of coffee,” replied the baron. “I shall not change it, even for you. I shall do my poor best to discover the names of the Rue de la Chanverie rebels at Sainte-Pélagie. Yvain’s promised to visit his friend on the police force as soon as he wakes up--”

“The big gamin is dead,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, suddenly. “According to Gavroche.”

Combeferre seemed to have lost the ability to accept bad news. Courfeyrac merely sunk back against his pillows.

“And the others?” asked Combeferre, after a moment.

“He didn’t know.”

 “God, Feuilly,” said Courfeyrac, sorrowfully. He could not think of anything else to say. Nothing would make that better either. He did not want to believe he would never see him or Jehan again. But, as Cosette got up and prepared to cede her watch to Combeferre, the butler knocked on the door and said, “It appears that Monsieur Gauvain de Courfeyrac has a visitor, sir.”

Cosette hastily rearranged all the pillows and blankets around Courfeyrac so that he could only be seen from the neck up, and Combeferre hid the remaining bandages and lint in a vase of roses. Looking harassed, he stuck the roses back in afterwards.

“Yes, come,” said the baron. Then, for the benefit of the visitor, “but make your visit short, my brother-in-law is very weak from _cholera._ ”

The butler opened the door to reveal himself and a bald figure in a tattered coat.

“ _Bossuet_!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, delighted.

“You were not in your rooms and so I assumed you were here,” said Bossuet, looking as if he hadn’t slept. “I... hadn’t realized your... attack of cholera was quite so severe.” Then, for the benefit of the butler, added, "I should have guessed you’d be breathing the same miasmas as your old roommate, Marius. He’s still suffering through his bout of cholera at his grandfather’s. By all the saints of heaven, you look like hell!”

“What a mixed theology, Bossuet,” replied Combeferre, smiling for the first time since Jehan had attacked the police spy. “Your oratorical powers have been widely exaggerated.”

“With what delight do I once again lay myself open for your critique,” said Bossuet, though he was grinning. He clasped his hand. “All is well?”

Combeferre whispered in his ear, “Feuilly is dead, we have no news of the others.”

The baron and Monsieur Fauchlevent left the students to themselves, Cosette, after sneaking a kiss, following soon after to sleep a little and have something to eat.

“Maurice has said that any survivors were being held at Sainte-Pélagie,” said Courfeyrac.

“Ah, then that’s where they’ve taken Joly!” Bossuet pulled another chair over to Courfeyrac’s divan. “I was astonished-- I’ve escaped _entirely_ unscathed, without so much as a missing button from my old friend here--” this was a complicated pun, an old friend, _un vieux ami,_ sounded like an old piece of clothing, _un viel habit_ “--though my dearest friend lost his wings and fell off a two-story house. He only broke one of his legs from what I could see, but they arrested him. I followed for as long as I could stay on the rooftops and then went back to the Musain to see if there were any wounded men who could escape- Bahorel ended up half-carrying Joly. Enjolras was with them.”

“Grantaire?” asked Courfeyrac.

“I found him in the Musain.” Bossuet couldn’t say anything else for a moment. “I never thought-- he was asleep when we went to build the barricade, he didn’t believe in any of the things we were fighting for. Why did he wake up and fight?”

“Where was he?” asked Combeferre.

“On the second floor of the Musain. I thought at first he just... hadn’t woken up and got shot by accident. But he was by the stairs, holding a newspaper stick that had been sliced in half.”

“He knew _canne de combat_ ,” said Courfeyrac. “Who was last in the room with us? You went out first, Combeferre, then Monsieur Fauchlevent helped me out-- was it only Enjolras?”

“All begins to make sense,” said Bossuet. “He wouldn’t fight for an ideal, but he would fight for Enjolras.” But Bossuet did not wish to linger on this thought. “Let’s see your cholera wounds, Monsieur Gauvain de Courfeyrac.”

The baron interrupted Bossuet’s appreciation of Combeferre’s sewing skills by coming in to say, “I’ve a note from Yvain-- there are three students at Sainte-Pélagie by the names of Enjolras, Bahorel and Joly. The rest are working men. I’ve sent in my advice that the trials be delayed and that we _not_ send them to the military tribunals. With any luck, Louis-Philippe will be in a good mood after his triumphant progress around the city with his honor guard of sons.” He eyed Bossuet’s tattered coat, gashed by bayonets and half-crusted with gunpowder. “I presume you, also, are a refugee from the Rue de la Chanverie?”

“Ah... yes, I have found that home rather dismantled.”

The baron sighed. “It is a good thing you are your mother’s favorite, Gauvain. I assume you will also be fleeing Paris with my brother-in-law?”

“If you are good enough to offer, I will not be so impolite as to refuse,” replied Bossuet. “We are all of us too well known to be part of certain republican circles.”

“And just yesterday I was thinking bitterly about how my chances of becoming poor old Casimer’s replacement were dwindling-- I suppose I ought to be glad I was not considered for the post, if I am to be shepherding three montagnards across France. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon?”

“I can be ready this evening,” said Bossuet, promptly. “I put myself entirely at your disposal. If I could, however, have pen, ink and paper to ask my mistress-- or rather, my friend’s mistress-- to bring me my few earthly possessions?”

“At the Hotel Beaulieu, we do strive to send out as much distressing correspondence as possible,” said the baron. “I am so glad to see you have caught onto the spirit of our activities here so quickly.”

“They may be waiting for months,” muttered Courfeyrac, once the baron went back to his study.

“Better that than immediate trial and execution,” said Bossuet. “What worries me is that Enjolras will be sure to turn his trial into a platform for soaring republican oratory. He and Joly and Bahorel will all be tried at the same time, will they not? Since they are all survivors of the same barricade?”

“Probably,” said Courfeyrac. “There’s a hundred pistoles in a bag in my apartment, from Marius’s grandfather, that will see to some of their needs.”

“I would offer to take it, but with my luck I’d never leave,” said Bossuet.

“I can’t get up from this divan, I’ve tried,” said Courfeyrac, rather pitifully. “I’m suffering more than Chateaubriand.”

“I’m sure you are, he didn’t lose as much blood as you did,” said Combeferre. “Bossuet, can you ask Musichetta to get the money from Courfeyrac’s apartment, while she’s gathering together your law books? I’ll take it myself--”

“And have everyone there recognize you?” cried Courfeyrac. “ _No,_ we won’t have you arrested too, Dr. Morrel’s influence will only go so far.”

“Arago would speak on my behalf,” said Combeferre, impatiently.

“Yes, at your _trial,_ months from now, after which he will only just manage to reduce your prison sentence!”

The quarrel continued on in this vein for hours.

Meanwhile, Cosette had had a busy morning. Her father woke her to kiss her goodbye and to tell her to settle in Toussaint (and Eponine, now posing as a maid-of-all-work, and Gavroche, who Cosette said, rather desperately, was her father’s special project-- he was being trained from a young age to be a footman). Blanchefleur had been arranging all the details of the trip while Laudine took a well-deserved lie-in and was happy to arrange for all the Fauchlevent trunks to be added to the rest of the luggage. After she and Blanchefleur eavesdropped together, until they felt reasonably aware of what was going on, Cosette went to deposit her cat on Courfeyrac’s lap.

This brought an abrupt end to all Courfeyrac’s verbal pyrotechnics, Bossuet’s sarcasms and Combeferre’s increasingly scathing one-liners.

“Aw, _minou, minou, mignotte minou_!” cooed Courfeyrac, though he later denied it. And all his thoughts were immediately directed to the kitten kneading the blanket over his lap.

Cosette pushed away the trays Pierre had brought in, taking a moment to anxiously make sure Courfeyrac had finished off his broth. “I suppose you are feeling stronger, now, Gauvain?”

“I think I fell asleep in the middle of our argument, at one point,” he said.

“Was it resolved, at least?”

Combeferre took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.

“If there is nothing Combeferre can do, is there something I can do?” asked Cosette, after a moment.

Bossuet looked suddenly energized. “Ah! I have a plan-- a potentially stupid, but potentially cunning plan--”

“Aaah the same plan occurs to me,” said Courfeyrac. He looked up at Cosette. “There is... possibly something you can do, my darling, my dearest angel of my heart--”

“Am I going to dislike what you’re asking me to do?”

Courfeyrac offered her a weak version of his usual charming grin, as Leopoldine butted her head against his chin. “Do you remember Enjolras? The blond one.”

“Yes-- very otherworldly?”

“Yes... it occurred to me, my dearest love, that you have the same eye color.”

Cosette thought about this a moment and said, “It’s a good thing my father is out of town. He would be very displeased at Mademoiselle Enjolras going to visit her beloved brother at Sainte-Pélagie.”

“Ah, you are wonderful!” cried Courfeyrac.

“I don’t think I could go alone, though,” said Cosette, considering. “I wouldn’t be afraid, it’s only that I don’t think they would admit me-- it would be very improper for Mademoiselle Enjolras to go alone, they might doubt who I am.”

“Your faithful manservant Combeferre will escort you,” said Courfeyrac.

“What?” demanded Combeferre, bewildered.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to go to prison as yourself?” asked Courfeyrac.

“No.”

“Do you trust Bossuet to go without getting arrested himself?”

“No.”

“Do you think you would be content letting Cosette go on her own?”

“No.”

“I realize that you usually have better ideas than me, but are you willing to admit you have been severely overtaxed by the past two days?”

“No.” But at Courfeyrac’s pout, Combeferre said, “Oh alright, fine. I’m sure Pierre will loan me his livery if I talk about alkali metals.”

“You may have to perform a scientific demonstration,” replied Courfeyrac. “Yvain’s still with his friend on the police force, but he promised to sit with me for the afternoon. It would be the perfect time for you to go.”

Cosette realized that asking Combeferre to pose as his servant was a poor choice as soon as they began to plan. Combeferre was clearly used to either being driven in a carriage or avoiding them as he walked to wherever he wished to get, as he first suggested a curricle.

“What, and have the young lady of the house sit next to the groom?” demanded Courfeyrac. “No. Besides which, you are _not_ a groom, you are a footman.”

“What is so objectionable in my plan?”

“A man in a curricle with a lady beside him is generally her suitor.”

Bossuet added, “Pray let us not entirely disregard _vraisemblance._ Footmen in livery do not pay their addresses to rich young ladies visiting their brothers in prison. Nor do footmen drive carriages, those are completely separate parts of the household. They’ll know you aren’t really a footman as soon as you drive up.”

Combeferre had understood class distinctions and found them appalling, but had never before so concerned himself with the minutiae of them. “Does this mean I cannot drive the carriage?”

Cosette and Courfeyrac exchanged agonized glances. Bossuet merely hid his face in his hands.

“What am I supposed to do then?”

“Stand on the back and look impressive,” said Courfeyrac, absently scratching Leopoldine’s ears. “Cosette, darling, can you drive?”

“No, we so seldom leave Paris we’ve always taken hackney's or stagecoaches, or gotten a ride from your family. I’m not a _terrible_ rider-- perhaps that would simplify things?”

“Ah, and your riding habit!” said Courfeyrac, deluged by happy memories. “The one you got just last month, it’s one of my favorites. It’s the perfect shade of blue.”

“And that is what you focus on while we are preparing to go bribe prison guards?” asked Combeferre, a little exasperated.

“If you saw it, you would focus on it too,” said Courfeyrac. Cosette laughed, for the first time since she’d seen Courfeyrac lying supine on the couch.

Bossuet smiled, too. “Why, Combeferre, I think our perfectly matched team here is pulling us towards our destination. No one will notice _you_ being the world’s worst manservant if Mademoiselle Fauchlevent wears one of Musichetta’s creations.”

Combeferre had to grudgingly admit that Bossuet was right when Cosette reappeared half-an-hour later, looking as if Aphrodite had breathed life into a fashion plate instead of a marble statue. The soft, white cravat brought out the exquisite line of her neck and chin and set off her sun-kissed complexion, the delicate kid gloves and boots emphasized the fashionable smallness of her hands and feet, the blue fabric gave her slender and exquisite figure the emphasis it deserved, and matched her eyes perfectly. When added to this her titled hat over her profusion of golden-brown curls, and her expression of purposefully guileless innocence, it became clear that absolutely _none_ of the guards would be looking at Combeferre.

“How beautifully it harmonizes,” sighed Courfeyrac, aiming for his usual playfulness. “A veritable rhapsody in blue, don’t you think, Combeferre?” Then, seeing that Combeferre did not quite appreciate the vision before him, Courfeyrac sighed. “Alas, my darling! If we wanted to get a reaction from Combeferre--”

“Don’t say it,” warned Combeferre.

“--we would have to procure some water and alkali metals first.”

“Oh he’s suffered enough in the name of chemistry,” said Cosette, not quite hiding her smile. “And _you_ are a remorseless flatterer-- I’m glad, it means you are almost back to yourself again.”

Musichetta was announced then, the butler not very pleased that the preparations for departure were being interrupted by Monsieur Gauvain’s stream of well-wishers.

“Ah, is that the riding habit you commissioned from me?” asked Musichetta, admiringly. “It’s one of my best creations, I think. All my work, too, Rosalie was busy with another order then.”

“It’s exquisitely done,” said Bossuet. “Joly’s in prison, my dear.”

“Yes, I got your note,” said Musichetta, sorting through her bags. “Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, you will be so kind as to mention to the servants that I came to see you, to deliver the gown you ordered. Of course, you didn’t order, one, so I just grabbed something that wouldn’t be missed, was nearly done and probably your size.”

“Of course,” said Cosette, taking the purse Musichetta held out to her. “Do you have any messages you want me to take?”

“I put a letter in the purse,” said Musichetta. “Rosalie put a note in too, and we both put in some money-- and I took the liberty of just adding everything you had in your desk, Courfeyrac.”

“As long as you didn’t put in the republican pamphlets, I am satisfied,” said Courfeyrac.

Musichetta pulled out a smaller purse from one of her bags and held it out to Cosette. “And this is all Bahorel’s-- it’s not much since, as Rosalie said, he’s generous to the point of prodigality, but it’ll serve for your bribes. I don’t want to go to prison myself today since there’s a couple of things in my apartment I would rather not have the gendarmes discover.”

“Understandable,” said Cosette, a little distracted by the sight of the beautiful, white Binche guipure gown spilling out of one of the bags. “Ooh, is that the gown?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Musichetta. “I’ve still got your pattern card-- I thought you’d need an alibi while you were riding off. A fitting seems like a good excuse-- and when you get back we can make sure it fits-- not,” added Musichetta, rather proudly, “that it wouldn’t. I’ve never been mistaken about tailoring yet.”

“Oooooh and a taffeta petticoat-- I’m sure this was meant to be someone’s wedding dress, though?”

“Funny story,” said Musichetta. “Actresses don’t always realize that getting married will often mean quitting the stage. There was a furious row in our shop last week.” She shook her head. “Well! You can save it for your wedding.”

Cosette blushed at that, and Courfeyrac deliberately did not meet her eyes when she shot an embarrassed look at him. All she said, before kissing him goodbye was, “I have a plan!”

“For your prison visit?” asked Courfeyrac.

“That, and for wearing the dress Musichetta brought over,” said Cosette, with a beaming smile. “I think it will work-- oh, you look at me so-- I just never admitted I wanted it as much as you because I could see no practical way of going about getting it. Now I do.”

He pressed a fervent kiss to the back of her hand.

Thus did Cosette sneak out the window of her room and around to the stables, where Pierre, who had now earned more in one day than he did in a month, was faithfully keeping two saddled horses out of sight. Pierre was in his best livery, the suit of clothes he wore when serving dinner, and peering around eagerly for Combeferre. He was well rewarded.

Pierre was a good inch shorter than Combeferre and, though Combeferre was not particularly fat, he was more sturdily built. Getting him into his livery had taken all of Musichetta’s ingenuity and half-a-dozen emergency work-arounds for various buttons and seams. Combeferre could not actually move very well and there was an inch of wrist poking out from his sleeves. The less said about his knee-breeches, the better. The only thing that actually seemed to fit him was his wig.

Pierre’s facial contortions could have earned him a spot in any boulevard vaudeville.

“Please don’t say anything about this belowstairs,” said Combeferre, much harassed.

Pierre could only purse, then flatten his lips, before saying, unsteadily, “I--I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

It was extremely busy at the prison; there were crowds of wagons outside as the _guarde municipale_ and all the various employees of the Prefecture of Police conducted revolutionaries through the prison, snapping at each other as some guards did not conduct their searches, or force down their prisoners from the wagons, with as much alacrity as anyone would have liked. Cosette and Combeferre studied this assemblage.

“There is one of the keepers of the prison,” said Combeferre, motioning to a harassed-looking man. There was a gaggle of gamins observing the excitement of so many arrests in one day. Two of them, for a franc a piece, were persuaded to hold the reigns of the horses, as Combeferre awkwardly jumped down into the melee, losing a button in the process, and attempted to help down Cosette.

“Wait a moment,” said Cosette and, once she saw that the keeper was staring at her in surprise, she nodded. Combeferre managed to put his hands on her waist without causing the sleeves of his coat to become entirely detached.

“Ah... are you lost, Mademoiselle?” asked the keeper, wandering over to them.

Cosette bent to loop the trailing fabric of her habit over her arm and took the opportunity to look up, slowly, from under the brim of her hat. Lesser men would have been felled by her wide blue eyes and her general prettiness, but when she added to this a slightly shy, hesitant air, the keeper was lost.

“I am-- I am so very sorry to bother you,” said Cosette, full of guileless innocence. “But my brother is here. He was arrested last night. My father has cholera, otherwise, he would have come himself--”

The keeper was immediately helpful. “Of course, of course, Mademoiselle...?”

“Enjolras,” said Cosette. “This is my servant--”

“Sancho Panza,” said Combeferre desperately.

Cosette sincerely hoped that the keeper was not well versed in Spanish literature. “Yes. Sancho Panza. I-- I did not wish to come into a prison alone, it seemed to me most improper.”

The keeper asked, a little uncertainly, “Are you from Spain?”

“No, Bayonne-- though we have lived for so long in the Faubourg Saint-Germaine I could not tell you much about it.” She offered him her sweetest smile. “Oh please-- might I see my brother?”

“The particular apartment for the reception of guests is in use by the director of the prison....”

“Is it against the law for me to see him in his cell?” asked Cosette, clasping one of the keeper’s hands in both of hers. “Oh please, my father is in such a state, and my mother beside herself. If I could only tell them I had seen my brother with my own eyes and delivered his linens with my own hands--”

The guard was not sure if he liked Mademoiselle Enjolras staring tragically up at him more than he liked the five franc piece she pressed in his hand, but both made him happy. He leaned towards Cosette and said, “Well, I suppose if one was to pay for a private room for the prisoner--”

Cosette dutifully paid for it while the other prison guards were busy with a prisoner who had fainted and could not be revived. The keeper spoke a moment with an official and, five minutes later, the keeper escorted “Mademoiselle Enjolras” and “Sancho Panza” up to a private room on the first floor. The room was whitewashed, as is the custom in prisons, and a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the whole of its sumptuous furniture. Enjolras was there, along with Joly and Bahorel who, the keeper said, with some exasperation, her dear brother had refused to leave.

“Which is just as well,” the keeper continued on, “for we are tightly pressed for space.”

“Well, as long as there is no additional fee for other residents,” said Cosette, “I cannot complain-- ah _dearest brother,_ are you well?”

Joly, laying on the bed, was hiding his astonishment by sneezing and Bahorel had his hand over his mouth. Enjolras was bemused, but tried to spin it. “Perhaps a little bewildered to see you, _dearest sister_.”

“Well yes, it should be Papa, but he does have cholera, after all, and mother will not let him out of bed,” Cosette replied.

“Alas,” said Enjolras, his lips twitching.

“And you remember our _faithful manservant,_ ” Cosette said pointedly, squeezing Enjolras’s hands.

Enjolras looked over her shoulder, puzzled, and saw Combeferre looking incredibly awkward in his livery. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “Ah yes. I am as glad to see you as I am my... sister.”

Combeferre clearly had no idea what a footman would say in response to this.

“I am sure _Sancho Panza_ is equally glad to see you alive and well,” Cosette said, through a somewhat forced smile.

Bahorel could not take the absurdity of the situation any longer and had to go laugh to himself in a dark corner of the room.

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre. Combeferre looked helpless. “Ah,” said Enjolras, with the same tremor in his voice. “This is-- this is very touching. It is very good of you to have come.”

The keeper was apparently satisfied by this, and retired.

Cosette released Enjolras’s hands and pulled out Monsieur Gillenormand’s purse from her pocket. “Well, this should see to your immediate comforts-- and I have taken the liberty of bribing the guard in advance, so you know you may depend upon him to take bribes and take better care of you from now on. There’s letters in there from Rosalie and Musichetta, and I imagine you know which letter goes where. _Sancho Panza_ has some clothes for you all.”

“Who came up with that?” asked Joly, as Combeferre knelt to look at his leg. Combeferre reddened and Joly struggled to maintain a straight face. “Ah. Hm. I-- I see.”

“What else do you need?” asked Cosette.

“Books,” called out Joly. “It is not so bad here, all the lively and energetic men are sharing this address, but we need something to debate. Enj-- er, your... brother... wishes to start a library.” Then, not entirely able to keep from laughing, he added, “Sancho Panza can help you, I’m sure.”

“My manservant would be delighted,” replied Cosette, a little dryly. “A word in your ear, dear brother?”

Enjolras bent down and Cosette cupped her hands around his ear. “Gauvain lost a lot of blood, but he’s fine-- his family’s taking him to Aix-en-Provence to be cured of cholera.”

Enjolras nodded. “The miasmas in this city are very dangerous. Do you leave for the countryside as well?”

“Yes, in one or two days. As will B—a… person from Meaux that is not dead.” At the mention of a B—from Meaux who was not dead, Joly’s anxious air disappeared like mist during a sunny morning.

Enjolras said, “You ought to take... Sancho Panza... with you.”

Combeferre looked up from Joly’s leg, looking almost hurt.

“We cannot risk the loss of anyone else.” Then, a little softer, perhaps to Combeferre alone, “ _I_ cannot risk--”

“I know,” said Combeferre, in a low voice. “You will be alright?”

Enjolras placed his hand on Comebferre’s shoulder and squeezed. “I will be, knowing you are safe.” A little louder, he said, “And I have Joly and Bahorel with me.”  

“Bahorel appears to have consumption,” said Joly, amused. “He may not last until the trial.”

Bahorel had laughed until he wept and was now trying to stifle his hysterics in a corner.

“There won’t be an immediate trial,” said Combeferre, pulling Joly’s black medical bag out from the bag of linens. “Here you are, Joly, keep this, but let me use it look at your leg first.”

Cosette perched on the edge of the chair in the room and said to Enjolras, “From what I overheard from conversations I don’t think I was supposed to overhear, it won’t be as bad as the students who were arrested last year and only came to trial February. Louis-Philippe is inclined to be lenient after punishing his naughty students, who don’t understand what a good father he is-- or some sort of familial metaphor. Blanchefleur’s hearing is better than mine, but the door was very thick.”

“It is all a matter of waiting for the trial,” said Combeferre. “Then I think there will be enough professors and parents with influence to reduce your sentences.”

“Is Musichetta alright?” Joly asked, rather anxiously. “I know this has probably given her quite a-- _my divine watchmaker, that hurt_!”

“Of course it did, you have a closed, non-displaced fracture of the tibia,” said Combeferre. “What did you expect?”

“Our, er, paladin of the Romantic era was looking... peaky when I last saw him,” said Bahorel, to Cosette. “I assume he, along with the gentleman from Meaux have…?”

“Um... cholera,” said Cosette. “To be treated by immediate change of air in a well-sprung carriage. He initially rather frightened us and the poor darling looks terrible, but he’ll live. Oh, I was supposed to tell you. The little boy-- Gavroche, he came to my house last night and said that the big gamin had pushed him onto another roof before being shot.”

“Grantaire is dead,” said Enjolras, quietly. “A singlestick will not beat a bayonet. A National Guardsman lunged for me; Grantaire lunged at him. I surrendered so that I could see what could be done for Grantaire but--”

“Bayonet to the chest,” said Bahorel. “It was quick. I was just coming to from an unfair blow to the head from the butt of a rifle and saw them leading down Enjolras. I was halfway up the stairs before they grabbed me.”

Cosette interjected, “Oh-- and Musichetta’s quite fine-- she won’t visit until she has, um... tidied. Extensively.”

“Smart girl,” said Bahorel, approvingly. “And I suppose it’s the same with Rosalie?”

“Yes-- ought I to say something to the guard Mon-- er... brother?”

“No, better not to mention anything and perhaps inadvertently draw suspicion upon them.”

Cosette smiled and wandered to the door, and chiefly occupied herself by watching for the keeper as the four others talked in low voices to each other. When she saw the keeper, she said, loudly, “Oh, my dearest brother!”

The four of them were bent together. Enjolras quickly embraced Combeferre. Combeferre had enough time to clasp Bahorel on the shoulder and press Joly’s hand before Cosette ran from the door and pretended to be weeping by Enjolras’s side.

“There, there,” said Enjolras, impressed with Cosette’s histrionic abilities. “I am sure... Papa... will recover.”

“But we go to Aix for the mistral, who will make sure you eat if I am not there?” lamented Cosette. “I cannot care for both you and Papa at the same time!” The keeper entered upon this line and, rather wanting to impress the pretty (and apparently very rich) young lady, puffed out his chest.

“Your brother and his friends will be in my care,” said the keeper self-importantly. “You may be easy in your mind, Mademoiselle Enjolras, they will not want for anything if....”

Cosette picked up on the implication very quickly and pressed Bahorel’s purse into his hands. "Oh! I am so happy to know my brother is in such caring, capable hands as yours. May I rely upon your kindness a little longer? It would _so_ comfort us all to know that you looked upon him kindly.” And, as she paid him well for his future kindness, the keeper was more than happy to oblige.

Combeferre realized that Courfeyrac had found a perfect partner in Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, and admitted as much once they were riding away.

Cosette smiled. "Why thank you, Sancho Panza."

Combeferre sighed. "And now this, I suppose, will replace alkali metals."

"Oh no," Cosette assured him, with all her customary sweetness. "Nothing will ever replace _that_."


	22. In which there is an atrocious pun

Courfeyrac was laying on the divan, still awaiting the return of his former strength and endurance. He could bear the wait more patiently now that his divan was by an open French window, overlooking a sea of lavender, with Combeferre and Bossuet were sitting in the window. The mistral ruffled Combeferre’s hair almost lovingly. Bossuet, who had no hair to be ruffled, was instead fighting the wind for control of Enjolras’s last letter.

“--very quickly guessed that ‘Mademoiselle Enjolras’ was not, in fact, my sister,” read Bossuet. “But it was only today that Bahorel saw fit to enlighten our keeper, Monsieur Odiard. I am beloved of a married lady of fortune with a decrepit husband, who bestowed upon her a title and, I quote, ‘embraces that made her nearly faint in horror.’ I cannot do justice to Bahorel’s delivery, but this young aristocrat has been conducting an affair with me that her husband only grudgingly allows, and, since I am now in prison, he has whisked her off to the South of France in the hopes of shattering the bond between us. Monsieur Odiard was very impressed by either this story or Bahorel’s telling of it, and when he asked me to confirm, I could only cough in surprise (Joly says it is pneumonia, I am sure it is only a trifling cold). We have gotten together a good group to discuss Rousseau every evening-- we go chapter by chapter through _The Social Contract._ Bahorel asks me to write that we had a very good party celebrating the fall of the Bastille last week-- I was commanded to rest that evening, as my cough was worse, and so did not include it in my last. The trial is tomorrow.”

“I suppose we ought to have suspected pneumonia,” said Combeferre, not quite able to hide his anxiety. “Joly only misdiagnosis himself.”

“It’s actually a good thing,” said Courfeyrac. “The judges had been handing out death sentences at random at the end of June. As it was, Enjolras was just trying to _breathe_ throughout the trial and thus couldn’t deliver any soaringly treasonous oratory. Joly and Bahorel plead drunk and disorderly instead of revolutionary, Enjolras pays no attention to the world around him, the jury feels bad about Joly’s limp, sorrows over Enjolras’s probable wasting disease, and completely believes that Bahorel would get drunk and just tear up paving stones for the hell of it. All the workers from the barricade declared that they accidentally got caught on the wrong side when the barricade went up, and, when you add in the fact that the National Guardsman brought in to testify against Enjolras was not nearly as pretty, you have a very slight jail sentence even before Bahorel’s parents bribed it down.”

“It was a good thing Bahorel insisted none of the survivors of our barricade talked to the _juge d’instruction._ There were no written depositions to be read out at trial, the lawyers could make a case for drunk and disorderly behavior very easily.” Bossuet put aside Enjolras’s letter for Musichetta’s. “Who would have ever thought _Bahorel_ would get some use out of his law classes? I was never so astonished in my life.”

Combeferre smiled faintly. “Those are very unusual extenuating circumstances to surround Enjolras.”

“I’m sure he would have protested if he had breath to do so,” quipped Courfeyrac. “Was it a month? Is that what Musichetta said?”

Bossuet scanned the letter. “The defense attorney’s _plaidoirie_ ought to have been a monologue from a _vaudeville_ , since I certainly didn’t recognize any of the characters upon which he had built his discourse. This is a good thing, I know, I would rather have Joly returned to me (and you, B) after sobering up in prison for a month, instead of repenting for his treason for five years, but I think Enjolras would have been very shocked by the portrait painted of his character, had he been aware of what was going on at the time. Nevertheless the defense lawyer got in some very good speeches on how these three _decores de juillet_ had fought for liberty, their support of all the values L-P supposedly upholds,. before talking of the misfortune of a few friends who, after a boozy luncheon, got a little confused as to what was going on outside. There is a chance they will get out early for good behavior, as they started a library (a very virtuous activity, if, as Rosalie says, you don’t actually look at the books), they have very wisely avoided paying for wine, and Bahorel has not yet punched any prison guards.”

“Bahorel continuously astonishes me,” said Courfeyrac. “First legal know-how, now a total lack of punches to authority figures.”

“She doesn’t give any other details about Enjolras’s health?”asked Combeferre.

“Just that-- ‘had he been aware of what was going on at the time’-- and a line in the beginning about ‘I think Joly is right and Enjolras has pneumonia. He was coughing throughout the trial (Rosalie swore she saw him coughing up blood at one point, but I looked it up in Joly’s textbook and that could just be pneumonia, not consumption) and seemed to be shivering half the time. He was very weak and leaned against Bahorel.’”

Cosette and Blanchefleur, who had been learning how to milk cows in the dairy and hadn’t much enjoyed it, were dutifully lugging steaming pails of milk to the main house.

“--don’t understand why Marie Antoinette and her circle were all mad about this Rousseauian ideal pastoral stuff,” Blanchefleur was saying, “since... well, I suppose cows are relatively good looking for farm animals, but the _smell_!”

Courfeyrac was immediately distracted by the sight of Cosette. She smiled and said, “Good morning! We’ve fresh milk out of the cow for your breakfast, since you slept through the breakfast the servants put out. We shall have you entirely well again, Gauvain.”

Cosette had rather enjoyed the fact that the cow had just stood there eating while the milkmaids delighted in instructing the young ladies of the house on the proper way to perform manual labor. Her previous experiences with stables had been when she was a child, and had been rather unpleasant. It seemed clear to Cosette that if the Thenardiers had kept cows instead of stabling the biting horses of visitors, her early childhood would have been a great deal easier (and probably less marked by starvation-- it was astonishing how much milk cows produced in a day).

“It’s Enjolras’s health we’re concerned with today,” said Bossuet, scrambling out of the way before he could accidentally kick the milk pail over.

“Oh, is my poor brother’s cough much worse?” asked Cosette, far too innocently.

Blanchefleur snickered.

“Pneumonia,” said Courfeyrac. “I think you’d best write to your poor brother with a coach ticket to Aix-en-Provence tucked inside.”

“I’m sure _Maire_ and _Paire_ will be delighted with another influx of revolutionaries,” said Blanchefleur. “Careful!”

Bossuet tried to be, and only ended up covered in milk, proving, once again, why Monsieur and Madame de Courfeyrac were not entirely thrilled with their son’s house guests. Combeferre managed to snatch the letters away in time, but a David sketch on the wall was not quite so lucky.

“Would they rather have me dead, or host the friends responsible for my survival?” asked Courfeyrac, managing to sit up without too much trouble. The carriage ride had been horrifically taxing; he had arrived in Aix closer to death than he had been since fainting on a rooftop and he rather dictatorially wielded the power this had given him over his terrified relations. “I can certainly sell it to _Maire_.”

“Propped up on all those pillows, you are the very picture of an Oriental despot,” said Blanchefleur.

“You don’t mind, you like my friends,” replied Courfeyrac. “Bossuet’s mishaps make your life very exciting.”

“And messy.” But there was no real heat in this protest. Combeferre, very restless in the face of Enjolras’s imprisonment, had taught Blanchefleur how to reliably hit a target fifty yards away with a rifle. This had, once again, not entirely thrilled Monsieur and Madame de Courfeyrac, but had made Blanchefleur much more willing to forgive Gauvain’s friends anything. “Ah! Monsieur Combeferre, you were not at breakfast-- there has been a fox prowling about the chicken coop-- or foxes, I believe. I shot at something last night and found a bit of a fox’s tail this morning.” This she dug out of her skirt pocket and presented the dirty souvenir, encrusted, as it was, with dried blood, to Combeferre.

He took it with genuine pleasure, to the mingled astonishment and dramatic disgust of the rest of the room.

“Now, now,” said Combeferre. “This is a sign of progress! It is proof of a skill almost mastered.”

“It’s a good thing I saved your career with my attack of cholera,” said Courfeyrac. “Clearly you will not be satisfied until you are lecturing in front of several tables of medical students, with some stranger’s small intestine under your fingernails.”

“Thank you for that graphic image,” said Bossuet. “I’m sure I couldn’t have had a happy existence without picturing that.”

“Ought I to write a letter?” asked Cosette, ever practical. “I am only worried that a dusty coach ride to the South of France would make him worse, not better.”

“Courfeyrac got much worse because he is a terrible patient and refused to rest,” said Combeferre, “instead preferring to spend his time arguing about Algeria.”

“It was a manufactured conflict that Louis-Philippe ought to have quit!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “The dey struck out consul in the face with a fan because Charles X refused to pay a debt the French Republic had contracted-- if I had been the dey, I would have _shot_ Deval in the face.”

“How fortunate for us, then, that you are not the dey of Algeria,”  replied Combeferre, very dryly. “Drink your milk. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, I would be much indebted to you if you did write a note to your brother-- but send the coach fare to Musichetta.”

Bossuet went to go change his clothes and alert the servants not to cry over spilled milk (but to rend their garments over the spoilt David sketch), and Blanchefleur dragged Combeferre away to see if she could get her bit of foxtail cleaned up and possibly made into a slightly horrifying necklace. Cosette hesitated by Courfeyrac and said, rather tentatively, “Have you spoken to your parents yet?”

“Attempted to,” replied Courfeyrac. “My mother is very good at steering a conversation away from what she considers dangerous waters. I’ll force the issue today if you like.”

Cosette considered this a moment. “If you wouldn’t mind getting a straight answer from her? And when she says no, you can always act very dramatic and then need all your friends to come stay with you so that you might be consoled.”

“But I want _both,_ ” said Courfeyrac, rather pathetically.

Cosette stooped to kiss him. “Silly! I just need to know her objections before I take _drastic_ action.”

Courfeyrac faithfully did so, while Cosette, armed with Enjolras’s last letter, attempted to write a reply that would convinced any jailor that Monsieur Enjolras was getting a letter from his “sister.” An italicized and much underlined father who had mysteriously fallen into a coma featured prominently.

“Hallo my treasure, how are you feeling today?” asked Madame de Courfeyrac, kissing the air above Courfeyrac’s forehead. “Less inclined to die for political ideals?”

“More inclined to ask for your permission to do something you may not like,” replied Courfeyrac.

Madame de Courfeyrac frowned. “Oh dear. Let’s get it over with, what is it that will upset me today?”

“I should like to marry Cosette Fauchlevent,” said Courfeyrac.

“No. We told you no in a letter not three months ago.”

“Yes, but that was three months ago. There’s clearly no chance of my going to England now.”

“There are other factors--”

“Like what?”

“There simply isn’t the money for you to marry,” said Madame de Courfeyrac, not very pleased to be admitting this. “We have two mortgages now, one on the estate, the other on the house in town. I have only just untangled our finances. They are in a dreadful state. There is scarcely enough to dower Blanchefleur and Marie. There is certainly not enough for you to marry.”

“I have my 3,500 a year.”

Madame de Courfeyrac snorted. “And two people can live on that! Oh my dear boy, I always thought you an idealist, not an idiot.”

“I feel it incumbent upon me to add that while on the barricades, I sold my life to her father for a box of cartridges.”

“You would command a much higher price on the open market,” said his mother, soothingly.

“And I frequently snuck into her home after dark to visit her without a chaperone.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“Well, no--”

“Is she a virgin?”

“... technically.”

“Then she and I and her father will have a little chat and all will be resolved,” said Madame de Courfeyrac, composedly. “Virginity is such a socially constructed thing, it generally only needs to be believed in, not verified. I daresay she hasn’t hurt herself immeasurably by her association with you-- I shall be sure to get Laudine to launch her in society, and she may make a more equal match--”

“How are we not equals?” demanded Courfeyrac, his temper fraying. “We are equal in mind, in temperament, in character--”

“And in social standing?” asked his mother, raising her auburn eyebrows. “My dear child, what an idealist you still are! Before your... attack of cholera, you were going to be _Talleyrand’s_ personal secretary. My father was the count of Provence and your father is a de Courfeyrac. Mademoiselle Fauchlevent is a very nice girl, a very pretty one, too, but her father is a gardener. We’ve allowed this flirtation to go on long enough, dear child. Put it behind you. I’m sure Mademoiselle Fauchelvent will, if we explain matters to her. I do like her, she is a very practical girl.”

Courfeyrac vainly argued against this-- he had rather thought that the ruin of Mademoiselle Fauchlevent’s reputation would be an unbeatable trump card-- but as his mother changed track, looked over Musichetta’s letter, and then offered to host Courfeyrac’s “gaol-bird idealists once they had flown the coop,” Courfeyrac relented and fell into a petulant silence.

“I suppose it went badly,” said Cosette, later that afternoon.

Courfeyrac, for a change of pace, was not laying down outside, in the shade of an olive grove. He had walked for rather longer than Combeferre had wanted him to, and now felt rather useless and angry at everything. Nothing he wanted and fought for seemed to be within reach.

“We’re going to have to manufacture a crisis,” said Cosette, matter-of-factly. “Would you mind terribly if my father ended up threatening you with a gun?”

“Would he shoot me?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Oh no,” said Cosette, “he bought you for a box of cartridges, remember? Papa’s very good about caring for his property. You should how lovingly he tends to his silver candlesticks.”

“I have no objections, then,” replied Courfeyrac. “After your visit to your dear brother Enjolras, I entirely trust you to arrange matters to achieve your ends.”

“I’m not nearly that Machiavellian,” said Cosette, laughing. “I just understand how to manage other people’s expectations. Now you rest-- tomorrow night, there ought to be a full moon. Can you sneak out of your window tomorrow evening and be very bad at being stealthy?”

“That’s easily done.”

“Good-- my father needs to catch you trying to enter my window.”

Courfeyrac mulled over this plan. “Ah ha, I see. I wonder why we never thought of this before?”

“I think we had more scruples,” said Cosette. “Oh well. If high society is going to deal unfairly with me, than I shall deal unfairly with it.” Cosette kissed him and left to implement her plan.

The grubby gamin that Cosette had brought with her seemed to have somehow undergone mitosis, and, much to everyone’s surprise, there had been three grubby little boys in the servants’ coach. Madame de Courfeyrac had banished them to the stables, where the head groom soon bullied them into good, if snarkily narrated behavior. Cosette first paid a visit to them and delicately suggested that there was nothing wrong in frightening a few chickens if they were feeling a need for mischief.

Her next stop was to the olive grove where her father liked to chat with the pruners.

“Blanchefleur shot a fox,” said Cosette, once her father had finished his discussion.

“What?”

“I don’t think her parents are too pleased about it,” replied Cosette, a little doubtfully. “Of course, she only hit a bit of its tail, but now she wishes to make it into a necklace... that is a shame because someone keeps burgling the chicken coop and when I talked to the servant who tends the chickens, he said a fox could not _possibly_ make the holes he’d seen in the wire.”

“Blanchefleur should not be shooting in the dark at possible robbers,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, disapprovingly. “She only learnt to shoot a month ago.”

“But she practices every day and she is quite good--”

“--and quite likely to accidentally kill a man,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “You will inform Mademoiselle de Courfeyrac that she is not to shoot at shadows.”

“All going according to plan?” asked Blanchefleur, when Cosette floated into the sitting room, looking pleased.

“Yes-- thank you for shooting the fox!”

“If we can be sisters, I would shoot a _bear_ ,” said Blanchefleur.

“You would like to shoot a bear anyways,” replied Cosette.

“That is true, but it was a well-expressed declaration of friendship, don’t you think?”

“Extremely!”

Blanchefleur grinned. “Well, I hope it all works-- I should very much like to have you as a sister. I can stay with you and Gauvain--”

“--and we’ll have marvelous adventures,” agreed Cosette, beaming. “Of course, I daresay they will all end with Gauvain injuring himself terribly, but he seems very resilient.”

“It’s a de Courfeyrac trait,” said Blanchefleur. “We always land on our feet. That’s why there’s a cat on the family arms. Yvain likes to say it’s a lion, but if it’s a lion, it’s a rubbish one.”

The next morning, Blanchefleur complained loudly to everyone that it was not fair she had been deprived of her gun, she could have shot the robbers who had invaded the chicken coop last night and frightened all the birds they did not steal. The servant who had brought news of this foul, fowl play anxiously turned his hat in his hands. There had only been foxes, the night before last, and he had been sure that Mademoiselle Blanchefleur’s marksmanship had scared away both foxes and poachers. Last night he had assumed all was safe, but none of the hens were laying and he rooster had been kidnapped.

“And this on top of the broken olive press,” said Madame de Courfeyrac, massaging her temples. “At least Laudine and Maurice are still at Cannes until tomorrow, and Yvain is in town. Marie perhaps... no, that maid you brought down with you, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent, is a godsend. As soon as Marie threatens a tantrum your Thenardier starts in on some ghastly story of life on the streets and Marie is immediately distracted and horrified to the point of immobility. Small blessings! There are fewer people wandering the grounds late at night-- no risk of any family being injured if we posted someone with a gun--”

“I can scare him off,” said Blanchefleur.

“Blanchefleur darling, do try to tone down that bloodthirstiness, it will put--” she had wanted to say ‘Monsieur Combeferre off his food,’ as he was was the only guest at the table besides the Fauchlevents, but Madame de Courfeyrac then recalled he had taught Blanchefleur to shoot in the first place. “Well. One must only be that bloodthirsty in the afternoon, it is bad form otherwise.”

Blanchefleur turned pleadingly to her father, at the other end of the table. “Oh do let me _Paire_ \--”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac was very carefully managing his breakfast. He could very easily do most tasks one-handed, but he had been advised (by the ever restless Combeferre) to try exercising his right hand in the hopes of once again gaining control of it. This had made most simple tasks suddenly difficult once more. “No.”

“Why not?”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac could use his knife with perfect dexterity in his left hand, and graphically illustrated the probable outcome of Blanchefleur’s attempt to frighten off poachers.

“Oh _Paire,_ I wouldn’t be guillotined!” Blanchefleur said, rather sulkily, “I wouldn’t _kill_ anyone.”

“Hm,” said her disbelieving parent.

“Not intentionally,” admitted Blanchefleur.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac shared a nonplussed look with his wife and returned to his omelette.

“I could wait by the coops, if you like,” offered Monsieur Fauchelevent. “I will fire into the air.”

“I must admit, you are much more physically imposing than my daughter,” said Madame de Courfeyrac. “Gauvain, awake at last! Sit down and have some breakfast, and convince your sister not to kill anyone.”

“Difficult tasks to accomplish before I’ve had any coffee,” said Gauvain, sitting down. “But for you, dear _Maire,_ I shall attempt it. I take it that Blanchefleur won’t be outside tonight, killing small animals?”

“Indeed, Blanchefleur the Bloodthirsty must earn her title elsewhere,” said Madame de Courfeyrac. “She is to stay indoors this evening.”

Courfeyrac shoot a meaningful look at Cosette. “Ah.”

Blanchefleur attempted to make amends by meekly offering her brother a basket of fruit. “There are some early apples-- the type... what are they called?” She had said, “ _Comment l'appelle-t-on_?”

Madame de Courfeyrac lost no time in turning this into a pun. “We _la pèle_ \--” or, ‘we peel it’ “--with a knife. Eh?”

Gauvain laughed. Monsieur de Courfeyrac favored the table with a long-suffering glance that showed that Gauvain clearly inherited his sense of humor from his mother.

This pun was only bested at dinner that evening when Combeferre mentioned that in English one called an _anguile_ an ‘eel,’ and lost his particularly fine specimen when trying to cut into it. The eel fell to the floor and was pounced upon by Leopoldine.  Courfeyrac’s English was not of the highest caliber, but what little he had he abused. When called upon to explain why he he was whistling _Ca Ira_ , Gauvain looked remarkably innocent and said, “Why should I not? Combeferre has caused the fall of the _best eel._ ”

Combeferre looked as if he was going to stab Courfeyrac. Monsieur de Courfeyrac nearly banished Gauvain from the table for that pun and for general abuse of French history, and Yvain was not mature enough to keep from throwing a piece of bread at his brother’s head.

Courfeyrac, having successfully gotten away with a multilingual republican pun about the fall of the Bastille, was thus in a very good mood. He retired early, while Cosette was still protesting that her father really _didn’t need_ to stay up and shoot at shadows. She had been protesting as much all day, to the extent that her father was now extremely determined on staying up and waiting outside her window, which commanded the best view of the home farm. Cosette retired in a sulk around nine, and Monsieur Fauchlevent stationed himself outside her window.

The night was calm and beautiful. For several hours Monsieur Fauchlevent only concerned himself with the movements of the heavens, the soft, sweet sounds of nature, the cicadas and crickets seeming to speak to each other in ancient Greek. Then, to Monsieur Fauchlevent’s right, there was the sound of a window opening.

It was evidently Courfeyrac, lithely sliding out of the window and jumping down onto the grass. No one else would chose such unusual means of egress when he could instead sneak down the hallway.

Courfeyrac, brushing off his trousers, took a moment to appreciate the evening before carefully counting the windows and going over to the one belonging to Cosette. Monsieur Fauchlevent had hidden in a shadow, as was his habit, and stepped out of it just as Courfeyrac knocked on the window.

“It’s lovely out darling, like a verse from a po-- ah. Hm.”

In the midst of the Romantic scene, the fading blueness of the twilight, the susurration of the Mistral through the lavender fields, the gentle shapes of the olive groves, their rustling leaves sounding a harmony to the lavender fields, a beam of moonlight entered, and danced along the barrel of Monsieur Fauchelevent’s carbine.

“Euh, good evening Monsieur Fauchlevent,” said Courfeyrac, with a weak smile.

“The night air,” said Monsieur Fauchelevent, “is injurious to your health.”

Courfeyrac was forced to agree. “It appears so.”

“You should climb back through _your_ window,” advised Monsieur Fauchelevent.

“Quite right,” said Courfeyrac, doing so. “Oh, um, you appear to be following me, sir.”

“Yes,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “We are going to pay a visit to your parents.”

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac. “That seems like a good idea.”

Cosette, seeing this from her window, realized that it was now her moment to enter into this manufactured drama. She scrambled into the corridor as soon as they walked out of Gauvain’s room. “Papa-- _papa don’t shoot him I will never forgive you--_ ”

“We are going to visit his parents,” said her father, grimly. “And you, young lady, had better come along as well.”

The walk to his parents’ room ought not to have tired him, but Courfeyrac was leaning on Cosette by the time Monsieur Fauchlevent hammered on the door and demanded entry.

Madame de Courfeyrac had only just retired for the evening and was still in the process of deconstructing her hair before changing into her night clothes. She was annoyed by the interruption, particularly as one could now see her hair rats.

“Shall I see what is wanted, Madame?” asked her maid, hastily putting a cap over her mistress’s head.

“Oh-- yes, yes, tell them to go away--”

But as soon as her lady’s maid opened the door, Monsueir Fauchlevent marched Gauvain in and refused to put down his rifle.

Madame de Courfeyrac tried to act surprised, but gave up the attempt very quickly. “Annette, go wheel Monsieur de Courfeyrac into the room, I am sure Yves has not yet readied him for bed.”

“Hallo _Maire_ ,” said Gauvain, a little awkwardly.

Madame de Courfeyrac rested one elbow on the edge of her vanity, and rested her chin in her hand. “I did try to act surprised, dear.”

“No one could ask for more,” said Gauvain, very gallantly. “Except possibly an invitation to sit down. I hate to admit it, but I rather overdid it today.”

“Yes, one can see that.” His mother sighed deeply. “You do look pale. Really, you ought to have expected something of this sort would happen to you sooner or later. I am only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“I’m only pale because I lost so much blood the other month,” protested her dutiful son, as Cosette helped him into a chair.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac’s total lack of surprise upon the scene was soon made clear, as he just said, wearily, “ _Really_?”

“Yes,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “Your son was trying to sneak into my daughter’s bedroom.”

“ _Again_?”

“So you know?” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, a little thrown.

“Expected it,” said Monsieur de Courfeyrac. He glanced at his wife.

“I am so sorry about this,” she said, contritely. “Gauvain, did I not _specifically_ tell you that you were _not_ to be married? I know your aunt Marianne hated Napoleon enough to defy the Code and gift you with 3,500 francs in funds before she died ‘without property,’ as her last rude gesture against the Empire, but that could hardly sustain two people, let alone a family-- what were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t,” replied his loving father.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “In my defense--”

But now it was Monsieur Fauchlevent’s turn to interrupt, “And that is your only objection to the match?”

Madame de Courfeyrac blinked. She was accustomed to having her every phrase interpreted as law, and had the same impression of her infallibility as a pontiff. It threw her somewhat to have her decisions questioned.  “That is a very great objection, you must admit. How are they to live when Gauvain has very little capital and is too ill to work? Why, he could barely sit up on his own when he first arrived. Of course, we’ll hush up any scandal, if there is anything we can do _short_ of arranging a match and condemning them to shabby genteel scrimpings all their days--”

“They might live on her dowry,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent. “Mademoiselle Euphraisie Fauchlevent, my daughter, has a dowry of six hundred thousand francs.”

The de Courfeyracs were stunned into silence.

“Six--six hundred thousand francs,” Madame de Courfeyrac said faintly.

“Minus fourteen or fifteen thousand francs, possibly,” added Monsieur Fauchlevent.

Cosette was herself astonished. She had been counting on her father’s notions of honor, as punctuated by a rifle, to win the day. Courfeyrac looked at Cosette in disbelief. It somewhat surprised him, too, to discover that he had been courting so considerable an heiress.

“No objections,” said Monsieur de Courfeyrac, hastily.

“Oh no, none at all,” replied Madame de Courfeyrac.

“Marriage!” sighed her husband.

“I am sure honor demands they marry,” agreed the now entirely persuaded Madame de Courfeyrac. “Well, Gauvain, I ought to have named you Felix-- you certainly are the luckiest of my children, your folly only results in fortune. I am entirely of the same mind as Monsieur Fauchlevent. You have quite ruined this poor girl’s reputation, you rake and reprobate, the only possible action in the face of this is to marry her. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac was of the personal opinion that six hundred thousand francs was so overwhelming an argument for matrimony that honor needn’t come into the equation, but he managed to get out, “Yes-- honor demands it!”

Madame de Courfeyrac was already lost in calculations.  “Why-- why the estate is only worth two hundred thousand, and that is if we manage to mend the olive press.” She began to see a way out of her difficulties and said, turning to her now favorite child, said, rapturously, “Ah! Gauvain! My dear boy, you were always escaping from your tutor to follow after the bailiff-- perhaps agricultural management is a better profession for you than the law. And if you were to purchase the estate we would avoid the mess the Napoleonic Code made out of inheritance laws. God bless your Aunt Marianne for showing us the way! Six hundred thousand francs!”

“Do I really have that much?” asked Cosette, still startled.

“Yes child,” said Monsieur Fauchlevent, “and now, it appears, you will have a husband and an estate in Provence. Does that please you?”

It certainly pleased the de Courfeyracs, who were immediately and loudly supportive of the match. Indeed, it quite astonished Cosette how everyone was so suddenly in favor of their getting married, and vehemently denied to all passing servants that no member of the family ever tried to split up the happy couple, no, certainly not, that had never, ever happened, how could anyone ever think such a thing.

“I always knew we would be sisters,” lied Laudine, very graciously, when her joyous mother woke the whole household with news of the upcoming nuptials.

“ _Really_?” demanded Gauvain.

“I am so proud of you, settling down in this fashion,” added Yvain. “You are a responsible young man!”

“I had to jump out of a window to avoid being lectured on how selfish and irresponsible I was being for wanting to marry Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,” said Gauvain. “Does anyone else remember this?”

“Your memory is impaired from your recent illness, Gauvain,” his mother informed him, very sweetly. “Monsieur Fauchlevent, I formally ask for your daughter’s hand on behalf of my son, Gauvain de Courfeyrac.” Monsieur Fauchlevent bowed. “Good, that’s settled. Palomer, bring up a magnum of champagne, my son Gauvain is going to be married to this young heiress, Mademoiselle Eupharsie Fauchelevent. And yes, have a couple of bottles amongst yourselves belowstairs, to toast the happy couple!”

“This was not exactly how I planned for this to happen,” said Cosette, in Courfeyrac’s ear, “but it ended up working out much better than I had thought.”

Courfeyrac was equally bewildered by their good fortune. “I think my family’s gone entirely mad. Not that they had very far to go....”

Combeferre and Bossuet came in then and had the good manners to neither show their astonishment at the size of Mademoiselle Fauchlevent’s dowry, nor their total lack of surprise at the presence of Monsieur Fauchlevent’s rifle in Madame de Courfeyrac’s dressing room. In fact, the hasty declaration after sundown surprised no one what-so-ever. Their servants seemed to have expected it and all the neighbors who ferreted out the relevant details looked rather smug as they congratulated him on their good fortune. Courfeyrac was almost offended, but, as he was getting what he wanted, felt that this might be beneath him.

Monsieur Fauchlevent left briefly and returned with an old book, which, when opened, contained five hundred notes for a thousand francs each, and one hundred and sixty-eight of five hundred. In all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs. This was reaffirmed by Madame de Courfeyrac, Yvain and Laudine, all of whom were now morally certain they had encouraged Gauvain’s courtship from the very start, and were now sure that Gauvain and Cosette would be very happy.

“It is so odd that money should buy our happiness,” said Cosette, pensively, “but I suppose that is what comes of living in a bourgeois dictatorship.”

“You have gotten very political since Gauvain’s injury,” observed Blanchefleur.

“I know you are soon to change your name, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent,” said Bossuet, “but to me and to--”

“Don’t say it,” warned Combeferre.

“--Sancho Panza,” this said with an air of triumph, as Bossuet darted out of the way of Combeferre’s grasp “--you shall always be Mademoiselle Enjolras.”

‘Mademoiselle Enjolras’ in her turn, replied, all sweetness and light, “And one must also admire the bravery of someone willing to intentionally nettle a man who has at least five weapons on his person at this very moment.”

“Says the woman marrying the man who made the pun about the _best eel_?” demanded Bossuet. “No, no, the bravery is all on your part.”

“Well,” Cosette said, “I know that if I ever get the urge to beat his head against the wall for abuse of the French language, there is a heavily armed polymath in the house probably willing to do it for me. That may be the true recipe for marital felicity."

 


	23. In which Valjean reveals a secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All credit for the pun that Combeferre uses in response to Courfeyrac’s repeated ‘best eel’ pun goes to looselipssinksubs. If you want a better version of the Valjean-confesses-to-Courfeyrac-scene go read Despard’s fic [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8803386/1/Too-Soon-to-Say-Goodbye). I have, as ever, done my best to avoid using the ideas and better work of others (and have tried my best to avoid other people’s ideas about prison AUs by glossing over the prison bit and deliberately not using details they mentioned while trying to keep the whole situation plausible), but if I do cross the line I apologize. It was never my intention and I did try to twist myself and my timeline into knots to avoid doing so.

 

The baron, the last to arrive on the scene, blearily regarded all the players, and turned to Monsieur Fauchlevent, “Ah. I thought you wished to discuss this tomorrow morning, before approaching Madame de Courfeyrac?” Then he saw the carbine leaning in the corner. “Ah. Matters grow clearer. I suppose Gauvain forced a resolution.”

“Yes.”

The baron tried very hard not to smile. “Yes. Well. The follies of youth!”

Monsieur Fauchlevent had no youthful follies to speak of, not unless one considered starvation induced breaking and entering. He did not entirely know how to respond.

“Well, may I assist you in any other way?” asked the baron. “I am sorry to have been absent, but Madame la baronesse was in great need of tranquility after the events of June.”

Monsieur Fauchlevent drew him out into the hallway. “There is... one matter.”

The baron nodded. “Ah yes, Gauvain mentioned it. Mademoiselle Fauchlevent is your natural daughter, is she not?”

Monsieur Fauchlevent coughed. He did not know what else to say. But this seemed a better excuse than the reality-- that Cosette was the natural daughter of God alone knew who, and that her guardian was an escaped convict. “If I was to announce her origin bluntly it might prevent or delay the marriage-- which, given tonight’s events, I am disinclined to do. I thought, perhaps, to invent a family of dead people.”

“A sure means of not encountering any objections,” agreed the baron. And, as Monsieur Fauchlevent had been a mayor, and the baron was familiar with the intricacies of the civil code, they concocted a very convincing family tree for Cosette.

She became the only scion of an extinct family; and, in what the baron thought was a masterstroke, Cosette became the legitimate daughter of the other Fauchelevent. Two brothers Fauchelevent had been gardeners to the convent of the Petit-Picpus. Inquiry was made at that convent; the very best information and the most respectable references abounded; the good nuns, not very apt and but little inclined to fathom questions of paternity, and not attaching any importance to the matter, had never understood exactly of which of the two Fauchelevents Cosette was the daughter. They said what was wanted and they said it with zeal. An _acte de notoriete_ was drawn up. Cosette became in the eyes of the law, Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent. She was declared an orphan, both father and mother being dead. Jean Valjean so arranged it that he was appointed, under the name of Fauchelevent, as Cosette's guardian, with the baron of Beaulieu as supervising guardian over him.

Cosette and Courfeyrac were quite aware of the legal twists and turns necessary to ensure their happiness and though, almost embarrassingly appreciative in private, in public appeared very blithe and unconcerned about details, saying vague things about how they thought everyone already knew. Madame de Courfeyrac pretended to see nothing at all unusual in these arrangements and, after Laudine hinted at the real cause of Cosette’s convoluted parentage, contained herself with the reflection, “Well! It makes him almost an aristocrat instead of a bourgeois. Who would have known that quiet old veteran had it in him?”

Monsieur de Courfeyrac was obscurely troubled by this, and Cosette’s dowry of half-a-million francs did not much assuage his concerns over his son marrying the illegitimate daughter of a factory owner. Surely it would come out somehow, or Monsieur Fauchlevent’s involvement would disturb the wedding, or cast doubt on its legitimacy. However, Monsieur Fauchlevent somehow broke his right thumb (Monsieur Fauchlevent and the baron were both very vague about the circumstances of the accident) and the baron announced that he would instead take over all legal duties. It relieved Monsieur de Courfeyrac enormously to know that the baron of Beaulieu would be signing in Monsieur Fauchlevent’s place in the mayor’s office.

With the bride’s family to be invented, the banns to be published, the majority of guests to be invited down from Paris, and the papers to be drawn up, the business of marrying already took longer than Cosette could have wished. Then the church and mayorality produced impediments; Madame de Courfeyrac had a great deal of trouble getting a dispensation so that two residents of Paris could instead marry in Aix-en-Provence, out of the de Courfeyrac family home. They could not get ready before Enjolras, Bahorel and Joly arrived, not very much surprised that Courfeyrac’s threatened carbine wedding at the barricade was now taking place.

“Now really,” said Courfeyrac, a little vexed.

“Of course we are all happy for you,” said Joly, as they tried to make Enjolras comfortable in one of the guest bedrooms.

“We’re just not surprised,” said Bahorel. “Would you be, if you were me and I were you?”

Courfeyrac was forced to admit the veracity of this statement.

“From what I have seen, you are well matched,” said Enjolras, in a raspy voice. The worst of his illness had passed in prison, but, as Courfeyrac knew, recovery was always agonizingly slow, and one was always tired, all the time. “I am happy for you, Courfeyrac.”

Cosette came in then, saying, “Dearest brother, look who I found for you!”

Combeferre was right behind her, Bossuet half-ducking under her arm to rush at Joly.

“Sancho Panza,” said Enjolras, with a brilliant smile. “Has Don Quixote here--” turning his smile to Courfeyrac, who had very obviously exhausted himself helping Enjolras upstairs “--been forcing you to help him tilt at windmills? I imagine the mistral makes them much more formidable.”

Combeferre’s heart was too full for expression. He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed and pressed Enjolras’s hand, looking as if he might cry from happiness. Enjolras, after a moment, looked at Cosette. “My dear sister, we are all indebted to you.”

“I shall call it in immediately,” said Cosette, very promptly. “I haven’t a wedding gift for Gauvain, yet--”

“Darling, your dowry just bought us my parents’ estate,” said Courfeyrac.

Cosette waved this away. “That’s my father’s gift, not mine. _But,_ on the subject, dearest brother, I hope you will give me your promise that you will stay here for as long as you wish-- for forever, if you are so inclined, this house is far too big for me and Gauvain alone, and I hate not having anyone at dinner. And I will be exacting similar promises from each of you-- and surely you would not be so cruel as to deny me when I have so many other things to worry about before the wedding?”

She could not have thought of any better gift.

Joly, who had fallen over in the force of Bossuet’s enthusiasm, said from the floor, “This just proves the existence of the Divine Watchmaker. You both fit together perfectly, in a manner that could not appear randomly in nature. And I think I will have to stay, Bossuet’s broken my leg again.”

“What, did I?” Bossuet asked, in real alarm.

“Sprained, possibly,” said Joly, examining his leg. “But a hairline fracture is always a possibility--”

“Your leg is fine,” said Combeferre, clearing his throat. “Courfeyrac, we know you’re getting married, but take that stupid look off your face before you embarrass us all.”

“That is my dear sister you are staring at,” said Enjolras, with his usual, dry delivery of jokes.

Courfeyrac was immediately distracted. “Oh Enjolras, I made the _best pun_ while you were gone!”

“If it is about Rousseau--”

Courfeyrac interrupted, “Oh no-- in English, Combeferre said, an _anguille_ is called an eel and then he dropped his _eel_ on the ground. So, you see, Combeferre caused the fall of the _best eel._ ”

“... ah, the fall of the _Bastille_ ,” said Enjolras, mildly amused. “Clever.”

Combeferre had clearly been sitting on a retort for some time as he now replied, “Courfeyrac, you repeat that pun one more time and it is off to the _anguillotine_ with you.”

Enjolras’s laugh turned quickly into a cough and Courfeyrac very meekly agreed not to make any more puns while in the sickroom. And, as Marius was due to arrive that afternoon as well, Courfeyrac so soon left Enjolras to rest that he kept his promise.

Courfeyrac had initially debated if he should invite Marius. Cosette and “Sancho Panza” had stopped at Monsieur Gillenormand’s house on the way back from prison and, though they hadn’t been allowed in, Monsieur Gillenormand declared his love for Cosette, entered into a several minutes long speech about how his grandson had good taste, and then reported that if Marius hadn’t died in a week from cholera, he was supposed to recover. Marius did not die (though he did not answer Courfeyrac’s short, cheerful letters), and so Courfeyrac spent several days struggling with the guest list and wondering if Marius, sensitive soul that he was, would even wish to attend.

“Well, invite him and leave the choice to him,” said Cosette, after seeing the name ‘Marius Pontmercy’ written and then crossed out several times. Having very few friends of her own to invite, she wrote down the names of her dressmakers, added Marius’s name again and handed the list to Courfeyrac. “Or rather, to his grandfather.”

“It won’t make you uncomfortable?” asked Courfeyrac.

Cosette laughed. “Not in the least! Would it make you uncomfortable?”

“No-- I should be devilishly glad to see him, as the last time I saw him I was certain he was about to die.”

“Then send the invitation,” replied Cosette. “Monsieur Gillenormand will be sure to drag him down to Provence and the mistral seems to everyone good. It would be horrible if he just stayed in the Marais where all the bad miasmas are, and just got sick again.”

The invitation was duly dispatched and accepted in a very excited note full of ink blots by Marius’s grandfather. Monsieur Gillenormand seemed to take the invitation as a personal favor to himself, as the entire note revolved around Monsieur Gillenormand’s pleasure in coming out of his “retirement” to make his old social rounds and celebrate the nuptials of his good friend Giles de Courfeyrac’s grand-nephew. There was one paragraph assuring them all that Marius was very much improved, though writing a great deal of poetry.

Courfeyrac was inclined to think this assessment overly optimistic and would not quit his anxieties until Marius actually arrived in Provence, looking very thin and very pale. He was clutching a volume of his poems that he had caused to be published at his own expense and which had earned him nearly eight hundred francs. Combeferre had bought a copy of the volume as soon as it had been published and had been oddly reluctant to let Courfeyrac read the chef’d’oeuvre, a long narrative poem about Marius’s brush with cholera.

Courfeyrac discovered why when Monsieur Gillenormand leapt spryly from the carriage exclaiming, “Monsieur de Courfeyrac! And where is ‘April in maiden’s form,’ your fiancée? She who gives the impression of a smile in the heart of the rose and a barefoot adventuress, whose laughter strikes one dead, but whose notes bring one to life?”

Marius had turned steadily redder during this recitation and thrust the book of poetry, called _In the Valley of the Shadow of Death,_ to Courfeyrac. “That is-- that is-- I am very pleased for you and Mademoiselle Fauchlevent. I hope that you will take--”

“Unrequited love is much more profitable than requited,” said Monsieur Gillenormand with a wink. “Can you believe it, the first printing already sold! Everyone enjoys reading about someone _surviving_ cholera, it is an unusual narrative. Poetry sells very well you know, it is very good that Marius found his Beatrice so early-- indeed, I think she is more useful to him lost than she would have been had he successfully found her.”

“You are talking about the lady about to become my wife?” asked Courfeyrac, a little surprised. “I hope it is not an awkward situation for you Marius--”

“Ah, the young devil, everything is awkward for him now that he is an accomplished poet! A sonnet in _Le monde,_ then his book sold out! Modesty, thy name is Marius!”

Marius flinched away from his grandfather’s exuberant embrace. “I-- no. I--I--”

“Where is this muse in printed muslin, the ray of sunlight which transverses the night?” demanded Monsieur Gillenormand, successfully seizing his grandson.

“Learning estate business from my mother,” said Courfeyrac. “She’s taken to it like a duck in water and keeps quoting Voltaire at me-- one must cultivate one’s garden! I hope you will stay as long as you like, Marius, we have postponed our honeymoon to Italy until spring, when my parents will have finished fixing their home in town to accommodate my father’s chair. We have vague plans to go on to Greece and Istanbul, or at least, my sister Blanchefleur is trying her hardest to convince Mademoiselle Fauchlevent that we do, and that we ought to meet her in Florence and progress from there. You are equally welcome to join us, if Cosette is convinced she can be away from the estate that long.” He led them both into the chaos of a house readying for the descent of numerous relatives and past where Eponine, who had caught Marie pulling the tail of Leopoldine, was now engaged in a horrible story about a failed break-in.

“--and when Babet stepped on that cat, the whole house woke up, pardi, nearly shanked in the side by one of the wall sconces--” Eponine demonstrated how this would look to Marie’s wide-eyed terror and amazement. “Nearly nicked his liver, said the horse doc, but still there was blood all over, and blood leaves such a trail, particularly for packs of dogs trained for the scent--”

“I see your mother likes to have her children very graphically understand cause and effect,” said Monsieur Gillenormand, as they passed Eponine now demonstrating Babet fighting off a pack of hunting dogs, the part of the hunting dogs here represented by the piteously mewling Leopoldine.

“Her parenting style has always been driven by practicality,” replied Courfeyrac. “Here is your room, Monsieur Gillenormand-- Marius, Combeferre and Enjolras are just over here if you want to say hello-- Bossuet and Joly and Bahorel may be there, but I think they went to Aix to see if there is any word on Musichetta and Rosalie. They took the mail coach and departed much later than the others-- couldn’t afford to take all that much time away from their business, despite Cosette ordering nearly all her trousseau from them-- ah, Combeferre!”

Combeferre was sitting on the edge of Enjolras’s bed, reading aloud a newspaper. Enjolras was half-asleep, his breathing raspy but even. Marius was not even paying attention, and was instead staring down the hall. “That maid was familiar, I think.”

“Marius, here is Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said pointedly. “And-- ah, Enjolras is asleep, let’s leave him be.”

“We can go to my room,” suggested Combeferre. “I have something for you.”

This surprised Marius, but Courfeyrac was almost tearful when he saw Combeferre very carefully and gently remove a battered notebook from his trunk.

“Ah, what is this?” asked Marius.

Combeferre looked at the notebook rather than Marius. “It was-- left to me, though I thought perhaps it ought to have been left to Bahorel.”

Marius opened the notebook and said, after a moment, “This is-- I recognize these poems. They were Jehan’s.”

“I thought perhaps you might like them,” said Combeferre, with a desperately sad smile. “Or, if you liked them sufficiently, you might see some of them printed.”

“Of course I will,” said Marius, with sudden heat, “Jehan was always the better poet, his understanding of natural rhyme, his symbolism-- of course I shall see them published, at my own expense if need be.”

“I always told you Marius had a good heart,” said Courfeyrac, lightly, clasping Marius on the shoulder. “See Combeferre? I was right.”

What Marius also had, however, was an extremely strange conception of Cosette. When Courfeyrac caught Cosette alone one afternoon, for once unoccupied with plans for renovation, travel, or weddings, she read aloud the most absurd lines. “And here’s you, I think,” said Cosette, pointing at a line about a friend containing all the qualities of a center, roundness and radiance. “How odd an image this is of me-- April in a maiden’s form?”

“Entirely accurate,” said Courfeyrac, wrapping his arms around her.

“Who would you say I was?”

“The love of my life?”

Cosette laughed. “Yes, but a person, surely?”

“How else should I see you?” He kissed her neck. “My equal, my partner--”

“Well exactly,” said Cosette. “That’s all I ever really could wish for-- and you know all the little things that make me a person, don’t you? Like my favorite food and my favorite color and what I really hope to be--”

“Cherries, blue and happy,” Courfeyrac replied promptly. “Or I believe you once told me that you would like to be the hostess of a renowned political and literary salon. I think Marius has unknowingly aided you in that endeavor, my darling. I daresay if Beatrice had wished to be a _saloniere,_ poets would have flocked to her house in droves. It doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“No, merely puzzled.” Cosette refused to be distracted, despite Courfeyrac’s best attempts. “I suppose I ought to be flattered, but I don’t at all recognize myself here. I suppose it was really for the best I met you before I actually met Monsieur Pontmercy. I’m not sure what we’d have to talk about-- though perhaps I oughtn’t to judge, the only time we talked was when he had cholera. And before you ask-- macarons, green and happy. And then possibly president of France.”

Courfeyrac was not particularly inclined, at that moment, to be anything but distracting. He was very successful at this until Marius, being drawn to socially awkward situations as moths to the darkness beyond the flame, stumbled upon them.

Cosette got up very quickly, straightened her gown and said, as if she had been caught merely strolling in the avenue, “Monsieur Pontmercy, I am very glad you accepted our invitation.”

Marius blushed to the roots of his hair.

Cosette was undeterred. “Since you are so good a friend of my husband-- soon-to-be-husband-- I hope that we, too, can be friends.”

Marius did not know entirely how to react. “I--yes, anything you wish, Mademoiselle Fauchlevent.”

“Oh excellent,” said Cosette, with a sweet smile. “We were just reading your book. It was, um… it was kind of you.”

Marius was still bright red. “And… did you like….?”

Cosette looked up at Courfeyrac to interpret.

“Did you like the image of yourself, sweetheart?” asked Courfeyrac.

“Very—very poetic,” said Cosette, diplomatically. “I didn’t much see myself, but I am flattered by the person you saw in me. She seemed likely to spout wings and fly off before you got a chance to speak with her. One has to sort of pin her down--”

“I have the impulse to pin you down,” Courfeyrac began, whispering into Cosette’s ear.

Cosette swatted him on the arm. “Behave! You’re embarrassing Monsieur Pontmercy.”

But most things embarrassed Monsieur Pontmercy. Indeed, later seeing Cosette in her bridal gown caused him to go bright red, retreat into a corner and spend the rest of the evening composing sonnets.

Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta, her robe of Binche guipure, a veil of English point, a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath of orange flowers; all this was white, and, from the midst of that whiteness she beamed forth. It was an exquisite candor expanding and becoming transfigured in the light. Courfeyrac was, as ever, immaculately attired, managing to look crisp and elegant despite the fading heat of the day, the sprig of lavender in his buttonhole matching her bridal bouquet. Indeed, there had been some fears the groom would outshine the bride before Cosette floated out of her carriage in what was arguably the best of Musichetta’s handiwork to date.

“I think it was a good business investment, coming down,” muttered Rosalie, as the assembled group murmured over Cosette’s dress and general beauty.

“Admit it, you’re happy to see Bahorel again,” said Musichetta, casting a fond glance at Joly and Bossuet, who were jointly trying to discover what had become of Courfeyrac’s hat.

“I admit to nothing, I don’t like weddings in general, they are an archaic process to preserve property more than a declaration of abiding love,” replied Rosalie, indignantly.

Bahorel was behind her and let out his low rumble of a laugh. “If anyone was using this particular wedding as proof, however, your assertion would fall completely flat.”

“Oh you great, lummoxing jailbird,” said Rosalie, not without fondness, “there always has to be an exception to prove the rule.”

When, at the conclusion of all the ceremonies, after having pronounced before the mayor and before the priest all possible "yesses," after having signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy, after having exchanged their rings, after having knelt side by side under the pall of white moire in the smoke of the censer, they arrived, hand in hand, admired and envied by all, preceded by the _suisse_ , with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping the pavement with his halberd, between two rows of happy spectators, at the portals of the church, both leaves of which were thrown wide open, ready to enter their carriage again, and all being finished, Cosette still could not believe that it was real. She looked at Courfeyrac, she looked at the crowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as though she feared that she should wake up from her dream. Her amazed and uneasy air added something indescribably enchanting to her beauty.

“And now we are married,” said Courfeyrac, squeezing her hand.

“Is that it?” asked Cosette, a little tentatively. “We’ve been fighting for it for so long it hardly seems real to me--”

“Only because I have not yet gotten you entirely to myself, yet,” he murmured into her ear, his breath stirring the fine curls against her neck. Cosette felt a pleasant shiver go through her, despite the sudden heat rising up her neck to her cheeks.

“Oh, well,” said she. “I hadn’t entered that into the equation. That changes matters _considerably._ ”

Courfeyrac grinned. “I thought it might.”

And for the rest of the carriage ride, and, indeed, for the rest of the evening, Cosette was very conscious of her new husband’s very playful teasing-- the hand lingering on her waist, the press of his leg against hers, the brush of his lips against bare shoulder or neck when no one else was looking, the purposeful overexaggeration of his habit of leaning towards any speaker, so that he was constantly brushing against her, or so near to her while she was speaking that her conversation became very muddled and confused indeed. He found constant excuses for his tactile flirtatiousness-- rearranging the fold of her dress, adjusting a flower in her hair, straightening the fall of lace of her bodice or pushing a curl out of her face-- and, after the first few times this happened, Cosette began giving him excuses. It was a delightful game.

The poor, who had lined up along the road of out Aix to receive the alms traditionally thrown by the newly married couple, blessed them as they grabbed for coins. There were flowers everywhere. The house was no less fragrant than the church; after the incense, the last of the late fall roses. The dining-room was full of beauty. In the cente,r above the white and glittering table, was a Venetian lustre with flat plates, with all sorts of colored birds, blue, violet, red, and green, perched amid the candles; around the chandelier, girandoles, on the walls, sconces with triple and quintuple branches; mirrors, silverware, glassware, plate, porcelain, faience, pottery, gold and silversmith's work, all was sparkling. The empty spaces between the candelabra were filled in with bouquets, so that where there was not a light, there was a flower.

In the antechamber, three violins and a flute softly played quartets by Haydn. Monsieur Fauchlevent had seated himself on a chair in the drawing-room, behind the door, the leaf of which folded back upon him in such a manner as to nearly conceal him. A few moments before they sat down to table, Cosette came, as though inspired by a sudden whim, and made him a deep courtesy, spreading out her bridal toilet with both hands, and with a tenderly roguish glance, she asked him:

"Father, are you satisfied?"

"Yes," said he, "I am content!"

"Well, then, smile."

Monsieur Fauchlevent’s smile was tinged with melancholy.

A few moments later, the butler announced that dinner was served. Monsieur Fauchlevent stood, but hesitated.

“Papa, I shall never forgive you if you leave my wedding early,” Cosette exclaimed, guessing at his thoughts. “You are going to stay and enjoy yourself and have a wonderful time.”

“Cosette--”

“You have gone through such lengths to make me happy,” Cosette protested. “Please, you _must_ share in it, Gauvain and I are already making over a little suite of rooms for you overlooking the garden. You will be so happy!”

“Ah Cosette--”

She seized both of his hands in hers. “Please, papa, I was just married today. It sets a precedent for the rest of my married life, and the rest of my married life, I intend to get my way.”

And so she did-- she persuaded her “dearest brother” into waltzing with her, just because everyone told her it would be impossible, bullied her father into taking the seat prepared for him and refused to let anyone bully him into making a toast, waltzed once with Blanchefleur so that her best friend (and now her sister) might have the opportunity to lead, and spent every other dance in Courfeyrac’s arms. Cosette flitted about the room like a lark on the wing, her happiness trailing about her instead of her song, and went about getting her way so charmingly that no one minded in the least.

When one added to this Courfeyrac’s own ability to charm, his habit of gaining happiness from that of everyone else, one could not possibly imagine a better reception. Happiness, after all, desires all the rest of the world to be happy and the joy of the newly married couple was infectious. Happiness was so rare a creature, still so odd a goal that it cast a veil of wonder over the proceedings. All invited to the wedding of course rejoiced in talking of it for years afterwards not only because the new couple were the largest local landowners, but because they had genuinely enjoyed themselves. The images themselves got a little mangled (for months afterwards Cosette received polite inquiries into the health and marital status of her “consumptive brother-- such a charming, handsome fellow, the young Monsieur Fauchelvent!”) but the pleasure with which everyone recalled them did not dim.

Nor was it lost on any of the guests that as the clock struck midnight, the new couple could not be found. The party’s flow of good humor continued unabated and perhaps aided by this, as all of Courfeyrac’s friends were inclined to rejoice even more in their friends’ absence. Laudine even forgot herself enough to genuinely enjoy herself, Yvain took over his brother’s habit of teasing Marius into an embarrassed and baffled silence, Madame de Courfeyrac was persuaded into a lively marzuka by Monsieur Gillenormand, and only two or three people asked Combeferre about alkali metals.  It was a night of great pleasure for almost everyone.

It was a night of torment for Monsieur Fauchlevent-- or, as he saw, as he looked in the mirrror, Jean Valjean. He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used his right hand as though it did not hurt him. He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by chance? was it intentionally? on the little portmanteau which never left him. On his arrival in Aix-en-Provence, he had deposited it on a round table near the head of his bed. He went to this table with a sort of vivacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.

From it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten years before, Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gown, then the black fichu, then the stout, coarse child's shoes which Cosette might almost have worn still, so tiny were her feet, then the fustian bodice, which was very thick, then the knitted petticoat, next the apron with pockets, then the woollen stockings. These stockings, which still preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean Valjean's hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought those garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the valise, he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called up memories. It was in winter, in a very cold month of December, she was shivering, half-naked, in rags, her poor little feet were all red in their wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon those rags to clothe herself in these mourning habiliments. The mother must have felt pleased in her grave, to see her daughter wearing mourning for her, and, above all, to see that she was properly clothed, and that she was warm. He thought of that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed it together, Cosette and he; he thought of what the weather had been, of the leafless trees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunless sky; it mattered not, it was charming. He arranged the tiny garments on the bed, the fichu next to the petticoat, the stockings beside the shoes, and he looked at them, one after the other. She was no taller than that, she had her big doll in her arms, she had put her louis d'or in the pocket of that apron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand, she had no one in the world but him.

But now she had chosen a path upon which he could not tread, she had chosen a life where an old peasant, an ex-convict, could not follow. He had no place in the perfumed halls, in the stately homes, under the Provencal sun. Cosette was lost-- would be so permanently when he confessed, as he knew he must.

Then his venerable, white head fell forward on the bed, that stoical old heart broke, his face was engulfed, so to speak, in Cosette's garments, and if anyone had passed up the stairs at that moment, he would have heard frightful sobs.

These lasted almost until dawn. Jean Valjean only emerged from his room at noon and wandered around in a daze, nearly colliding with half-a-dozen servants trying to tidy up. There were some titters from the maids. The general consensus was that old Monsieur Fauchlevent had either drunk too much the night before, or was still drunk.

Pierre, who had had the felicity to witness Combeferre drunkenly conducting scientific experiments, at the behest of the equally drunk Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel, was the first to actually stop Valjean. “Sir, are you having trouble finding your room?”

“No.”

“Ah! the kitchen, sir?”

“No, not-- what is your name?”

“Pierre, sir.”

“Pierre,” said Valjean. “Go wake Monsieur Gauvain. Tell him I need to speak with him.”

Pierre was now sure Valjean was on a nonsensical, champagne-fueled quest. “Sir, it is the morning after the wedding.”

“It concerns young Madame de Courfeyrac’s dowry-- some formality I forgot and am anxious to fix.”

“I am sure the law would not pursue you for it, sir,” said Pierre, wishing to be helpful. “But I will wake Monsieur Gauvain. If you would please wait in the drawing room? No one will disturb you there, sir, it is the last on the list to be cleaned this morning.”

Valjean nodded.

The drawing-room was in great disorder. It seemed as though, by lending an air, one might still hear the vague noise of the wedding. On the polished floor lay all sorts of flowers which had fallen from garlands and head-dresses. The wax candles, burned to stumps, added stalactites of wax to the crystal drops of the chandeliers. Not a single piece of furniture was in its place. In the corners, three or four arm-chairs, drawn close together in a circle, had the appearance of continuing a conversation. The whole effect was cheerful. A certain grace still lingers round a dead feast. It has been a happy thing. On the chairs in disarray, among those fading flowers, beneath those extinct lights, people have thought of joy. The sun had succeeded to the chandelier, and made its way gaily into the drawing-room.

Several minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean stood motionless in the midst of all the signs of joy and celebration, looking entirely out of place. He was very pale. His eyes were hollow, and so sunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearly disappeared in their orbits. His black coat bore the weary folds of a garment that has been up all night. The elbows were whitened with the down which the friction of cloth against linen leaves behind it.

Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor at his feet by the sun.

There came a sound at the door, and he raised his eyes.

Courfeyrac came in, perfectly dressed, as ever, in a dark blue coat over a white waistcoat, spotless linens, biscuit-hued trousers and a remarkably tied cravat. Valjean thought this show was probably put on out of respect-- a son’s desire to please his new father-in-law-- and felt a fraud. “My dear Papa-- as Cosette has instructed me to call you! I can see by your countenance no very happy business made you wake up this early.”

“It is half past twelve,” said Valjean. Despite himself, he was touched that Gauvain called him father, that his presence could cause his son-in-law to smile.

“Oh?” Courfeyrac stifled a yawn. “Forgive me, I didn’t sleep last night.” Then, upon realizing that the reason why could be very easily and awkwardly inferred by his father-in-law, Courfeyrac almost blushed. “Coffee-- shall we have coffee? Or tea or chocolate, whichever you prefer.”

Valjean stopped him from ringing the bell. “No. Nothing.”

This puzzled Courfeyrac who, now having possession of a large house and a retinue of servants, desired to use them in the service of those he liked. “Nothing? A tissane perhaps? You look....” Courfeyrac paused and said, “What, are you going to say that you refuse to live with us and want me to break it to Cosette? Papa, I would do anything for you but _that._ The looks she would give me!” Courfeyrac flopped into a chair and gestured at Valjean to do the same.

“It is not that,” said Valjean, refusing to sit.

Courfeyrac tucked his arms behind his head. “Good! She has been working incredibly hard on it-- I don’t understand how Cosette manages to find the energy to so practically arrange matters as she does. My friends will be staying, but in a different part of the house, Cosette has it all arranged. I introduced Combeferre to the director of the local hospital this evening-- Combeferre was inclined to go back to Paris and sit for the exam that would lead to a hospital position there, but the director all but offered a position to him on the spot when he heard that Combeferre was an intern at Necker. And Enjolras, you know, will go wherever Combeferre goes-- it used to be the other way around, but Enjolras’s recovery is very slow and is more inclined to let Combeferre guide him-- I imagine Bahorel will go back to Paris, but if Joly can finish his medical studies at the faculty of medicine in Aix, he and Bossuet will likely stay as well. Ah, did I tell you Cosette has enormous plans? She wants to open a free school for boys and for girls, not _just_ for the renters, and as soon as we return from Italy, she means to endow a few beds in the hospital, or pay for whatever else is necessary. She has told Combeferre she relies upon him to tell her where the money may be best spent. But you look distracted sir, and no wonder, I have been rattling off-- the point of my ramblings, sir, is that we are resolved to be happy. I see your bewilderment! My family doesn’t understand us either, and even my friends have only the vaguest grasp of it. But Cosette very ruthlessly goes after what she wants and, since she is happy, she is determined you are to be happy--”

“Monsieur,” said Valjean. “I have something to say to you. I am an ex-convict.”

 


	24. In which Valjean sees the light

Courfeyrac was at last rendered speechless.

Valjean’s satisfaction was bitter and dismal.

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac. “I had _thought_ there was something-- never mind. Let us get through the business then-- when were you arrested?”

“The winter of 1795,” said Valjean. “I served nineteen years.

Courfeyrac sat up in his chair. “Ah-- and what was the offense?”

“I broke into a house-- I stole a loaf of bread.”

“During the winter of 1795, I’m not surprised! Good lord, that was a time of Europe-wide famine, insane inflation from the Directory, the invasion of the Quiberon, the Vendee in revolt, bread prices astonishingly high--”

This was not the reaction Valjean had wanted or expected. He had wanted to be turned away and reviled. That was what he deserved.

“Did you have a family to support then?” asked Courfeyrac, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Even if it was just yourself, I can imagine how desperate the situation was-- and I believe myself to have a cursory understanding of your character, nothing could have driven you to an act of even minor violence unless you had someone who needed your help. A wife, perhaps? One before you met Cosette’s mother?”

“No, a sister-- seven children.” Valjean was confused, buffeted about by this conversation. “You do not understand. I was nineteen years in the galleys. For theft. Then, I was condemned for life for theft, for a second offence. At the present moment, I have broken my ban."

“Good God!”

There was a grim satisfaction in having driven Courfeyrac to this point. “So now you--”

“What monstrous injustice!” cried Courfeyrac.

“ _What_?”

“Nineteen years for stealing to save your sister’s children!” Courfeyrac leapt up from his seat. “Horrifying! I am well out of the law, but I admit I wish I had fewer scruples-- I ought to have taken the position in England, the government has shut down its only means of dialogue with the people by discrediting our barricades, the only possible way of influencing this _dictatorship_ seems to be _exactly_ as Maurice suggested-- it entails a slow moral death for very limited progress-- good Lord! We were better off under the Bourbons, at least _then_ the government had not co-opted the Republic as a mask over its own absolutist ambitions! If only I had fewer scruples! I would go to England at once and learn how best to manipulate the laws into a fairer state-- though perhaps the government would not let me?” This puzzled Courfeyrac. “Possibly not, the government seems to value workers less than their machines, it would so startle them to think of the working class as people they wouldn’t listen to the rest of my speech. Were you a factory worker? I recall Cosette mentioned something of it.”

“I am a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my living by pruning trees. After my time in the galleys I founded a factory that made jet beads. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean. I am not related to Cosette.”

“What?” asked Courfeyrac, considerably astonished. “Well, I admit that ‘I am a convict’ is less socially acceptable than ‘I am a factory owner and Cosette may or may not be my natural daughter,’ but either you muddled the telling of your life to her, or there has been some serious misunderstanding.”

“She does not know about my life,” said Valjean, simply.

“Why the devil not?” asked Courfeyrac, by now as bewildered as Valjean had wanted him to be. “Good Lord, you treat Cosette like she’s made of spun glass-- she hides her ruthlessness under such sweetness, it is possible to mistake matters, but really-- did someone denounce you, is that why you came to me? Are you being pursued or tracked? Is there something I can do to help you?”

“Yes! I am denounced! Yes! I am tracked! By whom? By myself. It is I who bar the passage to myself, and I drag myself, and I push myself, and I arrest myself, and I execute myself, and when one holds oneself, one is firmly held.”

“Then... if the only person bent on punishing you is you yourself, why are you telling _me_ this instead of Cosette?” asked Courfeyrac. “I can only imagine-- ah, I am all over the place, this is what comes of too much champagne and too little sleep-- my good sir-- my dear _Papa--_ ” here grasping Valjean’s hands, much to Valjean’s astonishment “--it must have taken courage I could only dream of possessing to tell me this, but I cannot fathom what motive impels you to tell _me_ this instead of Cosette. She is more directly touched.”

Valjean pulled away and hid in his shame. “From what motive, in fact, has this convict just said `I am a convict'? Well, yes! The motive is strange. It is out of honesty. Stay, the unfortunate point is that I have a thread in my heart, which keeps me fast. It is when one is old that that sort of thread is particularly solid. All life falls in ruin around one; one resists. Had I been able to tear out that thread, to break it, to undo the knot or to cut it, to go far away, I should have been safe. I had only to go away; you are happy; I am going. I have tried to break that thread, I have jerked at it, it would not break, I tore my heart with it. Then I said: `I cannot live anywhere else than here.' I must stay. You offer me a chamber in this house, Madame de Courfeyrac is sincerely attached to me. Your friends all respect me, and as you said we shall live together, and take our meals in common, I shall give Cosette my arm . . . Madame de Courfeyrac, excuse me, it is a habit, we shall have but one roof, one table, one fire, the same chimney-corner in winter, the same promenade in summer, that is joy, that is happiness, that is everything. We shall live as one family. One family!” He was in agony, the vision so tempted him. But he knew very well he had no part in it. “No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours. I do not belong to any family of men. In houses where people are among themselves, I am superfluous."

“You must certainly are not!” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “I think you mistake me, sir-- any disapproval I have is directly related to the fact that you have not told Cosette, not in the facts as you have related them to me. Good God, sir, I was engaged to go steal countries from their inhabitants for a living, do you think I would judge you for stealing a loaf of bread?”

When put like this, Valjean’s reasons for his exile seemed suddenly insubstantial. But he could not entirely let go of his deep shame and the unshakable conviction that happiness was not for men like him. “You misunderstand _me,_ Monsieur de Courfeyrac. I am a convict. I have broken my parole.”

“And my sister’s husband began his career by assassinating the duke d’Enghein,” said Courfeyrac. “When he broke his leg last summer and had a little too much laudanum, he wept to me that he was a murderer-- so, having a man who stole a loaf of bread for his sister’s seven children very much pales in comparison. Do you know what happened to them? The seven children.”

“No-- I have no family.”

“Why of all the-- Cosette is your daughter still, even though she is my wife. I consider myself your son, even if you clearly would have preferred some other man to marry your daughter.”

But Valjean was lost in his misery, and muttered to himself, grieving that Cosette had never been his daughter and now could never be his daughter.  “I could have remained silent--I could have-- to purchase my happiness with a lie!”

Courfeyrac seized him by the shoulders-- no easy feat, considering how recently he had nearly bled to death, and how strong Valjean still was-- and said, “Now you are talking nonsense, sir, and I hope you will forgive me for saying so. I am going to bring in Cosette and she will tell you how thoroughly ridiculous you are being. You don’t need to buy your happiness! One works at it, yes, but it is earned, not bought!”

Valjean was almost insensible. He walked away and said, bitterly, “You see my leg drags a little-- you know why.”

“And, my good sir, from the depths of my heart I wish it wasn’t the case, but as it is, this changes only one thing.”

Here was the expected banishment. Valjean lifted his head and stared at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac was smiling gently, kindly. “You bought my life for a box of cartridges-- perhaps I might buy your pardon with my career.”

“It is enough that the law thinks me dead, drowned,” said Valjean, very confused by this. He did not realize the generosity of this offer, of the willing sacrifice put before him until several moments later. “You do not understand--”

“You keep saying that,” said Courfeyrac. “But permit me sir-- I think I do. I understand that you were starving due to an unfair and unjust system of government, and that government punished you for the evils it inflicted upon you. You saved my life sir-- allow me to save your good name.”

Valjean almost fell into a seat. Such kindness confused him. He was near tears.

At that moment, a door at the other end of the drawing-room opened gently halfway, and in the opening Cosette's head appeared. They saw only her sweet face, her hair was in charming disorder, her eyelids were still swollen with sleep. She made the movement of a bird, which thrusts its head out of its nest, glanced first at her husband, then at Jean Valjean, and cried to them with a smile, “I am _so sorry_ not to have been up earlier, but that was not in the least my fault.” She mock glared at Courfeyrac. Their game the previous day had ended very triumphantly the night before, and then well into the morning. She had been too exhausted to move when Courfeyrac got up to go see her father. “Well, from your expressions it seems that you are discussing something very tiresome. Its complications seem too much for you two to bear alone! There is the picnic to plan later this morning, of course, but that is mostly done, and Blanchefleur and I will be doing most of the carrying and setting up to give the servants more time to clean. How can I help?”

Courfeyrac turned to her and held open his arms. “I am not entirely sure-- my dear, I believe your father has something to say to you that is not nearly as shocking as he would have you believe.”

Cosette went in at once, closing the door behind her, and nestled against her husband. She was dressed in a voluminous white dressing-gown, with a thousand folds and large sleeves which, starting from the neck, fell to her feet. There was an air of such happiness, such peace, such purity about her that Valjean felt worse than ever. “Well, what is the matter? I think I know the worst of our family history-- you owned a factory, my mother was your worker and had me out of wedlock--”

Valjean’s lips moved but no sound came out of them.

“Really sir,” said Courfeyrac, very gently. “What do you fear will happen?”

Cosette at once flew to Valjean’s side and plopped down by his feet. “Come now, Papa, do you still love me?”

The tears in his eyes spoke to this.

“Then why do you think I should ever stop loving you?”

“Because--” he swallowed and it seemed as if his saliva had a bitter taste to it. “Because I am an ex-convict. I broke my parole.”

Cosette blinked.

“He is making it sound worse than it is,” said Courfeyrac. “Darling, he stole a loaf of bread during the famine of 1795, to save the lives of his sister’s seven children. The government that starved him and drove him to the point of theft then punished him for it.”

“Is _that_ all?” asked Cosette, looking non-plussed.

“Is that _all_?” repeated Valjean, not at all expecting her reaction.

Cosette said, in a mock-chiding tone, like a kitten attacking, in play, the hand pulling at its whiskers, “Good Lord, papa, you saved my husband off of a barricade. Surely _that_ is a worse crime than stealing a loaf of bread, according to the law. Not that I believe the law as it is currently enforced by the government of Louis-Philippe is derived in the least from natural law, or any form of recognizable social contract, or a mandate from the People.”

“I believe sir,” said Courfeyrac, elegantly arranging himself on the divan, as Persian cats sprawl in sunlight, “that you forgot my corrupting influence. It is convenient having two socialists as children, is it not?”

“I was arrested for theft a second time,” pursued Valjean.

“Given how unfairly prisoners are paid in the galleys, I cannot say I am surprised,” said Courfeyrac. “Paid worse than the silk workers of Lyons, if you can believe it!”

Cosette rested her chin on Valjean’s knee and looked up at him, with an expression that perfectly married her sweetness and practicality. Valjean had never been so confused in his life. “I am so sorry you were driven to it twice-- but you know, Papa, you did save the life of your good friend the baron. This can all be tidied up very neatly. You need only ask him for a favor in return for the service you rendered last summer and you need never fear unfair reprisal.”

This was not _at all_ how Valjean had expected this interview to go. “But my child, if he should know--”

“What would he do?” demanded Cosette. “He _likes_ you. Besides which, Gauvain and I are already married, an annulment is certainly out of the question at this point, and divorce is very unfashionable. Not that either of us would consent to it. Besides which, I bet you a franc that the baron has done many worse things than you have.”

“He has,” Courfeyrac pointed out again. “I realize no one is paying attention to Algeria with the cholera outbreak, but....” He shook his head. “Anyway, you’re family now, sir. You saw what lengths he went to to save _me,_ what wouldn’t he do for someone whom he actually respects as an equal?”

A little helplessly, Valjean continued on with his list of sins. Good things did not happen to him. “I am not your father, child, I concealed the truth from you.”

Cosette frowned at this. “What?”

“I wonder that you thought so, even after--”

Distressed, Cosette pulled at her dressing gown, holding it more securely against her chest. “Who-- who was my father?”

“I don’t know-- your mother had you before she came to work in my factory. To my shame, she was fired when it was discovered she had had you-- I caused your misery.”

“No, the Thenadiers did,” said Cosette, though she was very clearly upset. She scooted away from him, her breathing uneven, her hands shaking as she picked at the melted wax on an endtable.. “It was them-- but that was a very long time ago, I am not that child--”

Courfeyrac immediately leapt from his seat and embraced Cosette, pressing a kiss to her disordered hair. “Not at all, that’s all past.”

It was still some time before she could breathe evenly and speak, but when she did speak, she sounded almost angry. “I knew you had some sort of-- of secret, something shameful.” When Courfeyrac released her, Cosette whirled to face her father. “And then when I asked if I was your daughter, that night when Eponine reminded me what I-- who I had been, you said that I _was_ your daughter. But-- but why didn’t you tell me? You know all I’ve suffered, everything that ought to have degraded me. If that didn’t ruin me forever for happiness, why, then, did you think that this meant _you_ could never be happy?”

Valjean was stunned by her reaction. “My child, I’m a convict.”

“And you are still my father,” said Cosette, by now furious. “And I told you _everything,_ even about what Gauvain meant when he said God was our chaperone, when clearly _neither_ of us wanted to have the conversation we did, but you-- you didn’t think you could _trust me_ to still love you?”

Of all possible chastisements Valjean had imagined leveled at him, this was not one he had prepared for.

Cosette scowled at him and said, “I’m angry with you now because I think you really ought to have told me everything last spring, but I still love you. You are still my father, we shall still have a room prepared for you, I’ll still come and call you into lunch after your mornings spent with the tree pruners. This doesn’t change anything except that I’m going to be mad at you for a few days for not telling me sooner.”

“I am a convict--”

“And I’m still your daughter!” exclaimed Cosette, entirely vexed. “Unless you no longer wish me to be, in which case you are the most horrid man alive--”

“You have been my family, my only family, for so long,” said Valjean, his voice breaking. “Ah, my child! If you could only ever be my child--”

“I am your child,’ said Cosette, a little mullishly. “But I’m my own person, too. You’re my father, you’re your own person. That is how it goes. Because I love someone else doesn’t mean I love you any less. Now, I forgive you for not telling me, but I don’t forgive you for thinking I would ever be so stupid, so-- so horrible as to refuse being your daughter if I found out how much you suffered. Go talk to the baron and then we can all have a picnic outside _as I planned_ and be _kind and honest_ with each other as we’re _supposed to_ _be._ ”

“If Maurice cannot help,” Courfeyrac began.

“Of course he will,” said Cosette, determined on getting her way again. “And you will certainly _not_ go to England, you would lose all hope once you started engaging in shady political deals. Maurice likes that sort of thing, he will help Papa simply because it is a chance to show off his skills, if nothing else. And you and I and Papa and everyone will cultivate our garden and make this corner of Provence just how we want all France to be. I hate that money gives you so much power in France these days, but I’m determined to wield my power justly until there is no need of it.”

And thus Cosette marched Valjean into the library, where the baron generally went in the mornings to look over his correspondence.

“I had not expected any of you to rise so early,” said the baron, folding up a letter. “I take it there is some trouble with your recently deceased, previously unknown family, Madame de Courfeyrac?”

“Only a little,” said Cosette. “You have been more than generous with me and Gauvain, but may I ask you a favor on behalf of my father?”

“Monsieur Fauchlevent, you know you need only ask,” said the baron, a little surprised. “My God, sir, you saved my life last summer.”

“Told you,” muttered Cosette, to her father. Then in a louder tone, she said, “Good. Is the door locked?”

“Yes.”

“And the windows?”

The baron glanced around the room. “I take it there is bad news ahead.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” said Courfeyrac.

Valjean had to keep protesting; he wanted so desperately to believe that Courfeyrac was right. “You keep saying so, but--”

Cosette interrupted, “My father was once in the galleys. Can you get that stricken from the records?”

The baron was astonished.

Courfeyrac interjected, “Before you say anything, Maurice, he stole bread in 1795, to feed his sister’s seven, starving children.”

“That was a terrible year,” said the baron, with a quick return to his usual imperturbability. “Yes, you needn’t worry, Madame de Courfeyrac. Of course I will do my poor best to help-- you and your husband may leave matters with me. Go dress, we shall have everything sorted by the time you return.”

Cosette smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. “See? I told you we could arrange everything. I will see you in a few hours. Try to accept that people like you, Papa, I know how hard that is for you.”

The baron nodded and with a last, beaming smile, Cosette took her leave, Courfeyrac following close behind. He was still too newly married to pass up a chance “helping” his wife to dress.

When the door closed Valjean collapsed into a chair. “My name is really Jean Valjean.”

“Ah,” said the baron, leaning back in his chair. “Just now it crossed my mind that you might be the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer. It was quite the scandal at the time. A generous-- dare I say genius?—man of enormous strength, who made half-a-million francs from his factories. But he was found out and fled--”

“Please,” said Valjean.

“No more.” The baron steepled his fingers together. “We need never mention it again if it pains you.”

“But you did not know—”

“Not until your daughter mentioned the galley and Gauvain mentioned your arrest. I ought to have seen it sooner: your daughter’s dowry, your previous retirement before my wife’s interference... but then again, one often glides smoothly on through life, only brushing against the surfaces of lives other than one’s own. You know, it was quite the scandal when you didn’t take the honors the king wished to bestow upon you, so everyone was well satisfied to discover you hadn’t taken them because you were a convict.” Then, seeing his expression, the baron exclaimed, “My dear sir, you surely do not think I would be so uncouth as to _tell_ anyone! You are family. I tell you this only to avoid having you repeat something that is painful to you, and to assure you that I can very quietly have the name of Jean Valjean expunged from the public files. There is very little else I can do for you--”

“--you need not do anything--”

“--ah, but you see, you saved my life last summer, and now you are Gauvain’s father-in-law. I am afraid I would be offended if you did not allow me to use my influence to smooth the way for you. What good is unfair privilege if you do not use it?”

Valjean was almost stupefied. The ways and habits of the ruling classes were strange and foreign and seemed unfair, even when-- particularly when-- they were being used to his benefit.

“I think you could use a drink,” said the baron, kindly.

Valjean did not drink, but he took the glass of bourbon just to be doing something. Everything else seemed to be done to him; he was no active participant in his life once again. The last time he felt like this had been when the Bishop gave him his candlesticks. There was a way out from all the msiery, from the great machinery of the law and the state, built to trap him and crush him. How could this possibly be? How could a man be so lucky as to twice, _twice_ find compassion and mercy despite what he was?

“It is a strange feature of our time,” said the baron, “that the more we deal with the intangible, in ideas and in poetic fancies, the more sincere we must be. And the more we deal in the tangible, in money and in property, the more plausible we must seem. The only difference between us, my good sir, is that I was taught to seem and you were taught to be.”

“My crime--”

“Is nothing next to some I have committed, in the name of the Empire and the Kingdom, and now the King of the French,” replied the baron. “But you were never taught to make a crime look like some great and noble work on behalf of others-- you were taught to take responsibility for your actions. It astonishes me, Monsieur... which name do you prefer?”

“None of them,” said Valjean, wearily, “but I was born Valjean.”

“Monsieur Valjean--” how odd those two words sounded together, thought Valjean “--will you allow me to say that I am astonished your time in the galleys did _not_ turn you into a criminal? You should meet Vidocq!”

“I would prefer not to,” said Valjean.

The baron took stock of Valjean’s defeated air and weary mein. “My good sir, no one is going to turn you in, no one is going to respect you less-- indeed, the best men I know are all criminals. It is only that they will end up in exile or in the Academy sooner or later, instead of the galleys. Come now, we are all here to help you.”

“But _why_?” demanded Valjean, almost frustrated.

“Because we like you,” said the baron, raising his eyebrows. “Is that so very difficult for you to believe?”

It was, and his disbelief persisted while the baron slowly and kindly walked him through all the steps necessary to erase the memory of Jean Valjean permanently, so that Monsieur Fauchlevent could live within the happy story of a man who, having atoned for his sins with a lifetime of goodness, had now earned his place under the sun. As was his habit, Valjean had hidden in a shadow as the baron talked, but the more the baron talked, the more plausible such a plan seemed. When the baron finished, Valjean turned to the window and watched Cosette, lovely in a printed muslin gown and a lavender sash, lay out a blanket and begin unpacking a basket herself.  It was a beautiful scene, the Mistral catching the hem of Cosette’s gown and the ends of her lavender sash, the olive groves to her right, the sea of flowers before her, and the warm, Provencal sun shining down on her. The de Courfeyrac boy—or rather, thought Valjean, his new son-in-law, Gauvain—snuck up behind her, put his arms around her waist and spun her around. Cosette had been scowling a little, but now laughed. Monsieur Fauchlevent had never seen her so happy before.

“This is your home, now, sir,” said the baron, handing him a topped-off glass of bourbon. Valjean took it and sipped it politely. The warmth from it burned down his throat, cut through the fog of shame and fear. He had wanted so desperately to believe, and now he began to do so. It felt as if the Bishop was smiling upon him once more.

The baron continued on, “We are in an era when the past can be re-edited to one’s advantage. It’s been such a mess since Camille Desmoulins hopped up onto that café table that people rather appreciate it if you abbreviate your life story, and give yourself a conventional ending.”

“Conventional?”

“Yes—you, the retired owner of a factory up north, happen to have had an illegitimate daughter with one of your workers. Feeling badly about this, you adopt the child and raise her after her mother dies. And your moral sense pays off enormously—you are able to dower her so magnificently that a dashing young member of the aristocracy marries her. I daresay they will insist upon you spending the rest of your days on the estate enjoying the Mistral and the three hundred days of Provencal sunlight, watching your grandchildren to grow up as respectable landowners.”

Valjean, with his old peasant’s heart, had felt the longing to own land many times in his life. For his grandchildren to own an estate—

He looked at Cosette, outside, apparently learning from her new husband how to duel with half of a baguette, and began at last to feel that there was a place for him under this sun, under this sunny, blue sky. There was a place for him beside his daughter and his son-in-law and amongst all other men. Cosette paused in her battle when she saw movement in the library window. She shielded her eyes from the brightness of the warm, Provencal sun and, seeing Valjean and the baron at the window, gestured at him to come and join them.

And for the first time in many years, his heart was light, his impulse to hide in the shadows gone. There was light and happiness and hope-- and he stepped out into it and looked, smiling, at the vast expanse of blue and gold horizon before him.

Valjean held out his hands to Cosette. “And so you pardon me, my child?”

Cosette’s expression was slightly mullish, particularly since Courfeyrac unfairly took advantage of her distraction to steal her baguette-sword. “What? Oh _Papa,_ I may be vexed with you, but of course! How stupid you are being. You do not consider the goodness of people.” Then, pensively, she added, “Though, of course, you are so hard on yourself, you must expect everyone else to be as well.”

Courfeyrac, smiling, offered both baguette halves to Valjean, with his usual habit of disguising his generosity as some flamboyant gesture, or as a favor the recipient was doing for him. The message in Courfeyrac’s half-crooked smile was clear. Here there was to be no want, here there was to be none of the evils inflicted by the system that could condemn a man to the galleys for starving, or condemning a woman to be arrested for pushing away a man who had stuffed snow down her thin dress, in the depths of a northern winter. “For the box of cartridges?”

Tears came to Valjean’s eyes. “For the cartridges.”

And he looked at Cosette, smiling and waving to guests behind him and beaming forth in what seemed like radiance to Valjean (though more prosaic observers would have attributed it only to the sun, which enveloped all of them in a glowing caress), and thought of the Bishop once again. _For the candlesticks,_ he thought.

Now the sun replaced their light.


End file.
